


Again?

by Pilesshipper13



Series: The Casebook of Sherlock Holmes [1]
Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pokemon Fusion, Alternate Universe - Wings, Female Sherlock Holmes, Gen, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-05-02 04:25:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19191799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pilesshipper13/pseuds/Pilesshipper13
Summary: A re-telling of the first episode in different universes.





	1. Soulmate Words AU

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! Sorry that I haven't been around, I've been working on some personal projects (and On the Run will be finished, I promise it's not abandoned.). But you guys just let me know which AU you like the best and I'll do scenes and maybe episodes using them. Or I could just jump around in whatever universe would be most interesting. Requests welcome!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A soulmate words AU, with a twist inspired by a tumblr post.

Tommy Gregson has one set of messy words, coiled around his left ankle in a mix of print and script. He has them memorized, just like everyone else in the world. He's actually grateful for how sloppy they are, because now he has next to no problem reading bad handwriting.  _Well. I never thought my soulmate would be a policeman. Though I suppose I shouldn't be surprised._  A little strange as far as first words go, but hey, he never met them anyway. So he got married. He never expected to be sent to London, still reeling from the Twin Towers.

 

Sherlock Holmes has three sets of words. When she was a child, she would often trace them, wondering about who her soulmates could be. Her peers bullied her for them- having more soulmates is seen as needing more people to straighten you out. She takes to covering them up unless in private. As she got older, she analyzed them.  _Chinchillas have the right idea- be fat, furry, and roll in the dust,_ the untidy feminine script around her right wrist reads. Then there's the masculine blocky print down her left ribs-  _lilacs don't actually smell like lilacs, they just smell like the color purple._ There's no 'u' in 'colour' so he must be American. There's also a set of words she's never discerned the gender of along her left shoulderblade-  _bet you wish you'd run away with me when you had the chance._ An odd set of first words; they connote a sense of familiarity. Sherlock puzzles over those the longest, long after she accepts the other two. She often found herself reaching her right hand over her left shoulder to feel them, or tilting her left shoulder back to make them bunch, but she forced herself out of the habits.

 

Gregson is talking with a group of counterterrorism officers when he first hears the name Sherlock Holmes. "Bloody Holmes," one man by the name of Kerry groans. "She solved another murder just by sniffing a guy."

"Aw, Christ. Lestrade still bloody peacocking," Harrison asks.

"Mm-hmm."

"Who are Holmes and Lestrade," Gregson asks, feeling out of the loop.

"Sherlock Holmes. A consultant who works in Homicide. Can take one look at you and tell you your mother's name, your birthday, and what you last ate," Harrison says. He scoffs. " _And_ she doesn't bother greeting people properly."

Gregson frowns; that doesn't sound right. No one can do that. "How? And why?"

"God, don't ever ask her that. All you'll get is an eye roll and a paragraph that at the end still has your head spinning."

"At least she's fit," another man, Anderson, who works in Forensics, says.

All the other men, with the exception of Gregson, nod, and the ones drinking coffee even lift their cups in agreement.

"Oh, Hell, here they come now," Kerry groans. Gregson turns to look, watching a man and a young woman walk towards them. The man has a buzz cut and is talking to her, who seems to not be listening. The woman is pretty- ice-blue eyes, black hair, a long and prominent nose, tall. She's thin, almost sickly thin.

"Ah, Anderson," the man that Gregson assumes is Lestrade says, beelining towards them. "Where's that bit of red plastic that was found at the Johnson crime scene," he asks.

"Should be in Evidence," Anderson says. Sherlock rolls her eyes, in full view. Anderson scowls.

Lestrade seems to catch sight of Gregson and extends his hand. "Clowns' shoes don't actually reveal the size of their feet," he greets. Gregson takes his hand and shakes.

"And yet they always seem to find shoes that fit," he replies.

"Detective Inspector Gareth Lestrade."

"Lieutenant Tommy Gregson." He turns to Sherlock and extends his hand to her. "Lilacs don't actually smell like lilacs, they just smell like the color purple."

Sherlock's eyes widen. "Well. I never thought my soulmate would be a policeman. Though I suppose I shouldn't be surprised." Gregson freezes, hand still extended. Sherlock takes it and shakes, ignoring the other cops who are just staring at the newly-discovered soulmates.

"I'm married," Gregson blurts out.

"I know. Ring somewhat gives it away. But even if it didn't, it's glaring obvious you have children. At least a daughter, by the look of that tie she gave you." Gregson's hand goes to the black tie that Hannah gave him for Father's Day when she was seven.

"How," he asks.

"The tie's too short. It's not because of your knot, that's perfect. You're a formal and practical man, you wouldn't buy a tie like that for yourself, nor would you keep one that had been gifted to you. Therefore, you keep it out of sentimentality. Boys are taught from a young age about ties, so it was a girl. Not a grown woman, they don't tend to give ties as gifts. Your daughter was too young, less than ten, to know what you liked, so it was either tools or a tie, correct?"

"Uh, yeah."

"But a practical girl. She didn't pick one that was patterned. So I assume a career policeman, not that it isn't glaringly obvious from your gait."

"My gait?"

"Holmes," Lestrade barks as Sherlock opens her mouth. "Enough. What did I say about doing that around the Yard?"

"To limit it," she sniffs. "But he did ask."

" _Everyone_ asks," Lestrade grumbles.

"My words. They're on your left leg, correct?" Lestrade glares at her, but she ignores him.

This one, Gregson can handle. "Ankle. My hand twitched, huh?" She beams. "Where are mine?"

"Here," she lays her hand on her left side. 

"It's nice to finally meet you."

"And you as well, Lieutenant. Don't worry, I have absolutely no intentions of asking you to leave your wife. I'm also quite happy in London and have no intentions of moving to New York. But if we must, we can exchange addresses since you do not possess a phone."

Gregson nods. Lestrade tugs Sherlock away before they can, though.

"God have mercy on your soul," Anderson says solemnly. Gregson ignores him, mulling over the fact that he's met his soulmate.

 

The pair don't cross paths much- they're both too busy. But Sherlock tracks him down one day and extends a piece of paper to him. Gregson takes it and looks. "221B Baker Street. That's where you live?"

"Yes. You?"

Gregson rattles off his address, and Sherlock nods, writing it down. "So. What should I know about you?"

Sherlock scoffs lightly. Gregson doesn't blame her- it's very cliche. "There's too much to a person to explain all in one go, and even then they tend to leave out the most important bits."

"Let's start easy. Parents?"

"Father. Mother died when I was young. Father sent me off to boarding school, along with my brother Mycroft."

"So you went to school with your brother? That must have been nice."

"Actually, we didn't ever attend the same school."

Gregson is flabbergasted. "Your father split you up," he demands. Sherlock nods, seemingly unfazed. 

"We never got along anyway. He's a restauranteur now."

"Has he met his soulmates?"

"Soulmate. Singular. And no, he has not. I assume you only have the one, correct?"

"Yes. You?"

"I have two more to meet."

 

Sherlock is sitting in Hemdale, bored out of her skull, when she makes the decision. Gregson. He's her soulmate, as well as being a Captain now. She dials his direct number. The line rings only once before she hears the telltale 'click' of an answer.

"Captain Gregson," the voice she hasn't heard in so long says.

"Captain. It's good to hear your voice."

"Sherlock?" The man is surprised.

"Yes, Captain."

"What are you doing calling me," he asks. She never has, even though he gave her his number whenever he switched precincts and when he got a cell phone.

"Well, I'm actually calling from Heathrow," she says, looking around. "I'm planning on leaving London. I was wondering if you had need of a consultant since I'm considering New York."

"I'll have to push it through channels." He sounds apologetic.

"Of course."

"I could pick you up from the airport when you come in," he offers.

"Thank you, but that won't be necessary."

"Alright. Just swing by the 11th precinct. I'm the Captain there. I'll see you then, Sherlock."

"Goodbye, Captain." She hangs up.

Gregson sits back after he puts the phone back in its cradle, just staring at it. His soulmate will be in the same country as him again. The same  _city_ even, working alongside him. After a decade of just letters. He sighs. This will complicate things with his wife.

 

Sherlock doesn't know what to expect when she walks into Captain Gregson's office. 

"Yes," the man says, looking up at her knock. "Sherlock," he smiles, standing.

"Captain. You've aged well."

"You, too. Filled out a little," he nods. His mouth contorts. "Not that you're fat, it's just-"

"Captain," Sherlock interrupts. "I didn't take offense. I was very skinny when we first met- I was young and quite blasé about my health."

Gregson nods, exhaling. "Good to see you've been taking care of yourself."

"Well," Sherlock says. "Am I formally your consultant yet, or is there some sort of waiting period?"

"All the paperwork came through. You won't be paid," he says, regretful.

"I wasn't in Scotland Yard, as you might well know," she replies. He nods. "Are there any cases proving difficult?"

"No, so far just cut and dry," he admits. 

"Well. You have my number," she nods.

"I do."

"I can tell you my address, if you wish."

"Sure," Gregson says, picking up a pad and paper from his desk. "Go." She recites her new address. "Got it."

"Wonderful. I'll just be going, then." She turns towards the door.

"Sherlock." She turns back. "It's good to see you."

"You as well, Captain. I'm eager to see how you work on your own turf."

 

Joan Watson has one set of words. It's almost a paragraph, starting from her collarbone and continuing for a few lines. It took her a few years after she learned to read to decipher what it said- _do you believe in love at first sight? I know what you're thinking; that the world is a cynical place, and I must be a cynical person, thinking a woman like you would fall for a line like that. The thing is, it isn't a line, so please hear me when I say this. I have never loved anyone as I do you, right now, in this moment._ When she was a child, it was so romantic. Other girls were jealous of her words, but as she grew, she covered them up like most people do. Only children flaunt their words. She wonders, with some panic, if it will be one of her sobriety clients. But people meet their soulmates at work all the time, she'll simply find them a new companion.

 

Joan answers her phone, reading the caller ID. Hemdale. "Bananas are perfectly shaped for the human hand," she greets.

"And yet you always get those annoying strings," the man on the other end says.

"I thought I wasn't picking up my client until later on."

"Yes, well, there's a slight problem. She escaped."

"What do you mean, she escaped?"

 

Joan has the woman's address on file. She looks up at the window, seeing the back of a tattooed woman pulling on a tank top. The woman soon walks past her. "The flavor blue raspberry is simply the color blue," she says. The woman ignores her. Joan rings the bell, but no one comes. She tries the knob, finding it unlocked. She walks in, following noise to a tall woman wearing just jeans and a sports bra staring at a bank of TVs, all blaring. "Chinchillas have the right idea- be fat, furry, and roll in the dust." The woman hits a button, and all the TVs pause. She turns to look at Joan, and her stare pins her in place. 

"Do you believe in love at first sight," she asks, and Joan drops her bag. "I know what you're thinking; that the world is a cynical place, and I must be a cynical person, thinking a woman like you would fall for a line like that. The thing is, it isn't a line, so please hear me when I say this. I have never loved anyone as I do you, right now, in this moment." She had steadily been approaching her until they're nearly nose to nose.

"Oh," Joan says. The woman reaches around her, and she hears the TV behind her turn on.

"Do you believe in love at first sight?" Joan stares at it. A TV show? Her soulmate greeted her with a line from a TV show? Really? She couldn't come up with something like everyone else?

"Spot on. Sherlock Holmes," she extends her hand. Joan barely shakes it and kneels to put her things back in her bag.

"I'll find another companion for you."

"That won't be necessary. I don't need a companion."

"But your father-"

" _Yes,_ I'm aware of his conditions. If I use, I'm kicked out of the shoddiest and least renovated of his five, count them,  _five_ properties in New York. If I refuse your so-called 'help,' I'm out on the street." She looks up from putting on her shoes. "It's my understanding that most sobriety counselors are former addicts themselves, but you've never had a problem with drugs or alcohol."

"Your father told you."

"Of course he didn't." Sherlock starts to walk away, and Joan follows her to the other room. 

"Care to explain why you broke out of your rehab facility on the day you were being released?"

"Bored."

"You broke out because you were bored?"

"No, I  _am_ bored right now. You'll get used to it, it happens quite often. Regarding our friends at Hemdale, they should be grateful I uncovered just a few flaws in their rubbish security." She walks back to the library and plucks a shirt out of the laundry, sniffing it. "Excellent." She puts it on.

"There was a woman leaving as I got here. Did she get you high?"

"Six feet, actually." Joan just frowns at her, and Sherlock points to the ladder leaning up against one of her bookshelves, which has a belt and a pair of handcuffs dangling over one of the rungs. She takes the belt down and puts it on. "I find sex repellant, actually," Sherlock muses. "All those unseemly sounds and fluids," she makes a face. "But my brain and body need it to function at optimal capacity, and I'm of the firm belief that you should feed your body as needed. You're a doctor, you understand. I expected a doctor to have messier handwriting, actually."

"I'm not a doctor," Joan shakes her head.

"Fine.  _Were_ a doctor. Surgeon, going by your hands." Sherlock's phone pings, and she looks down at it. "Lovely. Is your car parked nearby?"

"Yes, it's just down- wait, how did you know I had a car?"

"Parking ticket fell out of your bag when you dropped it. Can't have one without the other, can you?" She types rapidly on her phone as she talks. "Actually, scratch the car, Manhattan Bridge is down to a single lane. We'll take the Tube instead."

"I'm sorry, I can't be your companion," Joan says, following the taller woman as she sweeps out of the brownstone, hurrying after her longer strides. 

"Why not?"

"Well, we're," Joan trails off.

"Soulmates, yes, I'm aware."

"Ms. Holmes-"

"Either Sherlock or Holmes."

"Sherlock," Joan amends. "I just can't be your companion."

"I already work with my other soulmate, why not you?"

"I'm sorry, you have more than one soulmate?" It's not exactly rare, but it is uncommon. She's only personally known one person with two, and that was back in grade school.

"Three. One left to meet. You'll meet my other one presently." They hop onto the subway. Sherlock takes hold of a strap while Joan makes use of the center pole. "You and Father will be pleased to know that I've developed a post-rehab regimen for myself that will keep me quite busy. Prior to my stint in junkie jail, I consulted on a number of police cases at Scotland Yard."

"Yes, your father mentioned. He said you were a detective?"

" _Consulting_ detective. I wasn't paid for my work, and therefore I answered to no one but myself."

"What about London?"

"What about it?"

"I'm told that's where you bottomed out. Your father thinks something happened to you there, he just doesn't know what." Joan's phone rings, at the worst possible moment. She takes it out and checks the screen. Her parents. She silences it and pockets it again.

"Handsome woman, your mother," Sherlock remarks. Joan looks up at her. "Very big of her to take your father back after his affair."

"How could you possibly," Joan starts, just before the train stops and Sherlock looks out the door.

"Here we are." They get off and start walking.

"You still haven't told me where we're going."

"I intend to resume my consulting work here, in New York." Joan eventually sees a crime scene in the distance. Sherlock stops shy of it. "How do people usually introduce you?"

"Pardon?"

"Well, I hardly believe that anyone would admit to having been assigned a glorified helper monkey."

"'Helper monkey,'" Joan questions. That's a new one. "Well, we have something called companion-client confidentiality. You can introduce me however you like, friend, family member, and I'll play along. But honestly, most people just call me their companion." Sherlock nods and goes right up to the crime scene tape.

"Captain," Sherlock calls. An attractive older man turns to look at her. 

"Ah, Holmes," he says, walking over. 

"This is Joan Watson, my other soulmate and personal valet. Watson, this is Captain Thomas Gregson."

"Pleasure," Joan shakes his hand.

"How do you do? She stays out here."

"She's quite crucial to my process, I'm afraid."

"No, that's alright," Joan says.

"Not according to my father. He told me that a proper valet accompanies their charge to their place of business. Consider this my place of business. Consider every wretched hive of depravity and murder in this city my place of business. Unless, of course, you don't think you have the stomach for what I do."

Joan knows a challenge when she hears one. "I'm good," she says, cool.

Gregson hands over a set of gloves. "Just put these on, please." Joan nods and does. 

Sherlock almost immediately goes off on her own. Joan figures that there's no way she'd get high in a house teeming with police, so she stays to talk with the Captain.

"So. You're another soulmate," he says.

"Yes, Captain."

"Ah, call me Tommy."

"Where did you two meet, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Ten years ago, a few months after 9/11. I was assigned to Scotland Yard to observe their counterterrorism bureau. I was just a Lieutenant back then. Sherlock mostly worked homicides, but our paths thankfully still crossed a few times. It's funny, actually, her first set of words to me. They were weird, almost like something from the middle of a conversation rather than the beginning." Joan wants to ask, but it's rude. "They were 'Well. I never thought my soulmate would be a policeman. Though I suppose I shouldn't be surprised,'" he says.

"Huh. Well, her words to me were just as strange."

"I figured."

"They were 'do you believe in love at first sight? I know what you're thinking; that the world is a cynical place, and I must be a cynical person, thinking a woman like you would fall for a line like that. The thing is, it isn't a line, so please hear me when I say this. I have never loved anyone as I do you, right now, in this moment.'"

Tommy actually laughs. "Sounds like something out of a soap opera."

"It is." Tommy looks at her, no longer laughing. "She was quoting."

"She didn't even think something up for you?"

Joan shakes her head. 

"Aw, Hell. She's weird, Joan," he soothes. "You'll figure that out as you spend more time with her."

"Captain, if you please," Sherlock's voice calls. She leads them through the crime scene, and Joan is slowly getting caught up in it. Sherlock is brilliant. Rude, but brilliant. Maybe she'll stay on after all.


	2. Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "In another world, when you are loved, you grow wings to show it. The bigger the love, the bigger the wings."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on this text post 

Joan Watson walks into the brownstone, intent on giving her new client a talking-to. She walks up to where she can hear TVs blaring and stops dead. Sherlock Holmes's wings are scraggly and weak. They're a dull black, and not very well-taken care of. Joan flutters her own white wings, and the woman turns in place, her feathers not even so much as brushing the screens she's standing less than five feet away from. She's beautiful- blue eyes, long nose, fair skin, long eyelashes, tall.

"My name is Joan Watson," she says, launching into her introduction out of pure reflex. "I've been hired by your father to be your sober companion. He told me he was going to email you about me. I'm here to make the transition from your rehab experience to the routine of your everyday life as smooth as possible, so I will be living with you for the next six weeks, which means I'll be available to you 24/7." Joan puts her bag on the table, where it promptly tips over, spilling some of its contents. Joan hastily shoves them back in, looking back up to see her client, who is still just staring at her with that icy gaze. "Did he tell you about me or not?"

"He said to expect some sort of addict-sitter. Sherlock Holmes," she extends her hand. Joan shakes it, ignoring her comment. The woman has chilly fingers.  _Poor circulation._ But she has a firm, no-nonsense grip. Not crushing, but definitely present. 

"Would you care to explain why you broke out of rehab the day you were being released," Joan asks, following the woman as she goes to a study. Sherlock sits on a leather pouf and puts on shoes. 

"Bored."

"You broke out because you were bored?"

"No, I  _am_ bored right now. You'll get used to it, it happens quite often." Joan's wings twitch. "Regarding our friends at Hemdale, they should be thanking me for exposing just a few flaws in their overall rubbish security. It's amazing that no one had broken out before." Sherlock hops up, bouncing on her toes before she walks away. Joan follows her and watches her pick apart clothes in a laundry bag. The clothes aren't folded, so Joan takes that it's dirty. Sherlock sniffs one of the shirts. "Lovely." She puts it on.

"I saw a woman in the window as I was walking up. Did she get you high?"

"Six feet." Joan frowns at her, and Sherlock points to the ladder leaning up against her bookshelf, taking her belt down from the rung below two sets of handcuffs. Joan connects the dots. "I actually find sex repellent. All those unseemly sounds and fluids," she shakes her head. "But my brain and body require it to function at optimum capacity, and I'm of the firm belief that you should give yourself what you need. With the exception, of course, of the various illegal narcotics I found myself so regretfully addicted to. But you're a doctor, you understand."

"I'm not a doctor," Joan shakes her head, telling the truth. Well. A half-truth.

"Were a doctor, then." Joan's feathers shake slightly, whispering together.  _How_ _?_   "Surgeon, going by your hands." Joan actually jerks, wings spreading. Sherlock has her back to her, so she thankfully doesn't see. Sherlock turns and points at her. "Is your car parked nearby?"

"Yes, it's just down- wait, how did you know I had a car? And where are we going?"

"Parking ticket fell out of your bag," Sherlock says, obviously bored, as she types on her phone. "Can't have one without the other, can you?" She pauses. "Hmm. Scratch the car, Manhattan Bridge is down to a single lane. We'll take the Tube instead. As for where we're going," she says, grabbing her coat and sweeping out the door, barely tucking her wings. Joan hurries after her long strides. As they walk, Sherlock draws looks, and Joan can't blame them. Even for small wings, Sherlock's are on the below average side, to put it politely. They hop on a train.

"Prior to my stint in junkie jail, I worked at Scotland Yard."

"Your father mentioned that," Joan nods. "He said you were a detective?"

" _Consulting_ detective." Sherlock sounds almost offended. "I wasn't paid for my insights, and as such I answered to no one but myself." Joan picks up that warning sign- Sherlock will be one of her more difficult clients, she can already tell. 

"What about London," Joan gently prods.

"What about it?" Joan is used to that- intentionally feigning ignorance. Even from her brief interaction with her, she knows that Sherlock is not stupid by any means. 

"He told me that's where you bottomed out. He thinks something happened to you there, he just doesn't know what." Joan's phone rings, interrupting her. She curses and fishes it out of her coat pocket- her parents. She silences it, intent on calling them back at a more opportune time.

"Handsome woman, your mother," Sherlock says, and Joan looks up at her. "Very big of her to take your father back after his affair." Joan's wings flare slightly; she's lucky the subway car is mostly empty, otherwise people would have to either move around them or get hit by them. The train stops and Sherlock walks out.

"How could you possibly," Joan hurries after her. Sherlock doesn't seem to be inclined to answer, and frankly, Joan doesn't really want to know. "You still haven't told me where we're going."

"You and Father will be quite pleased to know that I've constructed a post-rehab regimen for myself that will keep me quite busy. I've decided to resume my work as a consultant here, in New York." Joan soon sees a home milling with police. Sherlock stops, and Joan nearly plows into her, only stopped by her own wings flapping once to keep her back. Sherlock turns sharply to face her. "How do people usually introduce you?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, I hardly think anyone would admit they've been assigned a glorified helper monkey."

"'Helper monkey,'" Joan questions, wings rippling. "Well, you and I have something called companion-client confidentiality. You can introduce me however you like- friend, family, co-worker- and I'll play along. But to be honest, most people just call me their companion."

Sherlock accepts the information with a nod and walks right up to the crime scene tape. "Captain Gregson!" An older man with auburn wings turns.

"Ah, Holmes. How you doing," he asks, smiling and shaking her hand. 

"Ms. Watson, this is Captain Gregson. Captain Gregson, this is Ms. Watson, my personal valet." The only response Joan allows herself is to shoot her a brief look. She ruffles her feathers and straightens. 

"How do you do," the Captain says, shaking her hand. "She waits out here," he says to Sherlock.

"I'm afraid she's quite crucial to my process, Captain." Joan's eyes widen and her wings twitch outwards. She had thought that she would be left on the curb, like most civilians. And she would prefer that, instead of walking into a crime scene.

"It's ok, really," Joan says, trying to soothe the Captain, whose wings are just starting to bristle.

"Actually, it isn't," Sherlock says, turning to her. "At least, not according to my father. He explained that it's the job of a proper  _valet_ to accompany their charge to their place of business. Consider this," she pauses to gesture at the crime scene, "my place of business. Consider every wretched hive of murder and depravity in this city my place of business." Sherlock pauses. "Unless you don't think you have the stomach for what I do," she shrugs, flippant.

Joan's wings fluff up and she narrows her eyes. "I'm good," she says, keeping her voice even.

"Put these on, please," the Captain says, extending a pair of gloves. Joan takes them, putting them on with no struggle. He lifts the crime scene tape for them, and Sherlock goes first, ducking under smoothly. Joan follows, a touch more clumsy- her wings bump into the tape. After all, she's never been past the crime scene tape before. The trio walks up the steps and through a hallway.

"Dr. Richard Mantlo came home a few hours ago to find his door kicked in and his wife, Amy Dampier, missing," the Captain starts. Sherlock bends and examines the bootprint on the door with her phone. There's an attachment on it that Joan hadn't noticed before. The Captain waits until she's done before he continues. "That's Mantlo over there," the Captain says, lowering his voice and subtly pointing. Joan looks- there's a man sitting at a table with glasses and drooping, straggly brown wings. Joan has seen those sort of wings before- in the waiting room when people had lost someone. There isn't much hope for Ms. Dampier. "He's a headshrinker out of Sanbridge Hospital. Says he caught an emergency last night. After he wrapped up, just before 5 AM, his feathers started falling out. He rushed home and found the front door like that. He called 911. First officers on the scene found signs of a struggle in the kitchen and master bedroom. But no Ms. Dampier." 

They're standing in the middle of the living room now. "Ransom demand," Sherlock asks. 

"What is it," the Captain said, wings straightening. Joan frowns, looking at Sherlock- she hadn't seen any sign of distress. 

"Not sure," Sherlock mutters. "Ms. Dampier's cell phone, have you recovered it?"

He turns to the apartment at large. "We have her cell phone?" A man comes over to him and hands over a bag. "Ah, thank you, Detective." He offers the bag to Sherlock, who opens it and takes the device out of it. She hums, flicking through it and then looking up at the wall. 

"She either lost a tremendous amount of weight or underwent significant plastic surgery sometime in the last two years," Sherlock nods. The others look at the wall.

"She looks the same in all the photos," Joan says, dubious, eyes flicking between the frames on the wall.

"That's my point," Sherlock says, a tad rude. "Ovular frames are older, have been here longer. You can tell by the way the wall has faded that the square frames are newer. They're the only ones that feature Ms. Dampier." Joan looks closer- there's a faint darker area in a gentle curve above and below the center of where the square frames hang. "Coincidence? No, check her phone," she says. They huddle closer, the Captain lifting his wing to make room for Joan. Sherlock thumbs through the gallery. "No photos of her older than two years. Yet there are countless pictures of other people in her life as many as five years ago." She hands the phone to the police Captain, who bags it again. Joan steps away from him, allowing him to drop his wing. Sherlock walks off. Joan watches her get on her knees and sniff the carpet.

"I take it you two have worked together before," she says. There's a familiarity between Sherlock and him; she respects him. And for him to allow Sherlock into his crime scene means that he's seen her work.

"Ten years ago," the Captain nods. "A few months after 9/11 I was assigned to Scotland Yard to observe their counterterrorism bureau. Holmes mostly worked homicides, but our paths still crossed a few times." He opens his mouth to say more when Sherlock calls for him. "Yeah," he asks, standing in the doorway to the kitchen. There's a Hispanic Detective with short black wings in there, watching Sherlock.

"Ms. Dampier knew her attacker. She let him into the house herself."

"Captain, who- who is this chick," the man asks, almost laughing in disbelief. 

"There are two broken glasses here," Sherlock says, holding her palms out flat and gesturing at the glass on the floor. Joan looks- she only sees the bottom of one glass among the broken pieces, and says so. "You can tell from the volume of shards. Obviously, she was pouring a glass of water for her  _guest_ when he assailed her."

"Riiight," the man sneers. "Look, you're a female," he says, gesturing at her. Joan doesn't like the way he says 'female.' "Is that something you would do if some nut job comes and kicks your door in, you ask him if he's thirsty?"

"Abreu," the Captain warns him.

Sherlock gets on her belly and looks under the fridge. She hops back up with ease. "Could I," Sherlock asks, leaning forward and plucking the pen that the detective is pointing at her. She gets down again and reaches under the appliance with her new tool. The trio hear clinking and sliding until Sherlock comes out, tapping along the bottom of a glass. "Bottom of glass number two," she says, carefully picking it up and putting it on the counter. She hands the pen back to a stunned Abreu. "If you take another look at the bootprint on the front door," Sherlock says, extending her phone. Joan is the one who lifts her wing to provide room this time, and the Captain puts on reading glasses and looks at the photo Sherlock shows her. "There is an almost imperceptible spot of blood where the heel made contact." Joan can see a pinprick of blood between the treads on the blown-up picture. "Lab tests, I'm sure, will conclude that it's the victim's blood, and could only have been left there after the assault had already taken place. Ms. Dampier let the man in because he was familiar to her, and he kicked the door in on his way out to obscure this fact. Clever, when you think about it."

"That's the last thing we need, a smart maniac," Abreu grumbles. 

"Also," Sherlock says, ignoring him. "He took something from the living room." Joan and the Captain backtrack until they can turn around and allow Sherlock to pass. "Note the symmetry of the space," she says, extending her hands to either side of the fireplace. "This wall is very nearly a reflection of that one." Joan looks- it is pretty neat. But  _nearly_ symmetrical? She looks carefully. Pictures, more pictures, a table...there. On one table there's a box in front of the other various knickknacks and on the other there isn't. 

"There was something there," Joan points. Sherlock looks at her.

"Yes. Hey," she says, when Mantlo wanders over. "Something was here, what was it?"

"I'm...sorry," Mantlo asks, glancing at the Captain.

"Maybe this isn't the best time," Joan says softly, stepping into Sherlock's space.

"Please concentrate," Sherlock ignores her. "Something used to occupy that space. I need you to tell me what it was." Mantlo looks at the Captain again.

"She's our consultant, Dr. Mantlo."

"Uh, it was an old...ring box. Amy's mother gave it to her. Why?"

Sherlock turns to the Captain. "You said there were also signs of a struggle in the master bedroom?" Mantlo's wings droop even farther.

"Mm-hmm," the Captain nods. They walk towards it.

"What is it," Joan asks when they're in the hallway. "Why is it so important that the kidnapper took a ring box?"

"Kidnappers don't take trophies. Killers do," Sherlock says.

"There's no body, genius," Abreu sneers. The Captain pauses, and Sherlock turns in the tight space, pulling in her wings. 

"There's no blood on the front stoop or walk, either. It's rather difficult not to leave any when you're abducting someone who's actively bleeding, wouldn't you agree?" She looks at the Captain, who moves completely into the bedroom. "You're certain your men have been over every inch of this house?" His wings bristle. "What I mean is, there isn't some...crawlspace they might have missed?"

"Of course," he nods, soothed. "But as you can see, there was a struggle here."

Joan can see that the covers are mussed, but not 'didn't make the bed' mussed. 'Running for your life and tried to crawl across the bed' mussed. She shivers, wings curling around her. Sherlock doesn't seem fazed- she walks around the bed to the far side, examining the pillow. She pauses and bounces on her toes for a moment, then walks heel-to-toe parallel to the bed, hands lightly balanced at her sides. Joan watches her, ignoring Abreu's scoff- clearly, Sherlock is measuring something. 

"She's in the safe room," Sherlock says.

"What safe room," the Captain asks.

"The one behind that wall," she points.

The Captain looks at Abreu. "Husband didn't say anything about any safe room," Abreu covers.

"There's a slight angle to the floor in here," Sherlock says. The men look confused. Sherlock looks around and carefully removes a single decorative marble from a bowl and puts it near her feet. The marble starts to roll slowly. Sherlock moves around it and keeps talking. "The extra weight of a safe room's steel reinforcements can cause the floor around it to decline slightly, creating a slope between one and five degrees." She goes to the nightstand and feels along the back edge. The wall next to the bed slides away with a 'click,' allowing the marble entrance. The rolling sound stops, and the Captain and Sherlock look in. One of them turns on the light, and Joan gasps and looks away. Amy Dampier is lying on the floor, eyes wide open, in a pool of blood with her feathers strewn around her. "Sometimes I hate it when I'm right," Sherlock sighs. She steps back, allowing the men entrance.

The rest of the crime scene is a blur, and then Sherlock coaxes her onto the subway. Joan expects to return to the brownstone and finds herself a little disappointed. She wants to see how this plays out. "Why are we going home," she asks.

"We're not. We're beating the police back to the station. Or did you not hear me," Sherlock asks. She examines her. "Mm. Yes, your first time can be overwhelming. You'll get used to it. Well...not 'get used to it,' but definitely not be as shocked. People kill people. They always have. They most likely always will." Joan nods. They arrive at the station, and people give Joan curious looks as she follows Sherlock. They end up in a dark room facing a window, looking into an interrogation room. 

Mantlo comes in, escorted by a police officer. He sits down at the opposite end of the table and fidgets. "Why isn't he being interrogated," Joan wonders aloud.

"I believe the term that police procedurals use so often is 'letting him sweat.' Not too much longer now."

Abreu and the Captain walk in, sitting across from Mantlo. "We found Amy," the Captain starts. Mantlo's wings lift. 

"You did? Is she ok?"

"No, Doctor," Abreu says. "She's not. She's dead."  _Little heavy handed_ , Joan thinks. It looks like Mantlo's strings had been cut- he slumps, wings drooping until the ends touch the floor. He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. "We found her in the safe room." Mantlo stops and looks up, frowning.

"What safe room?"

"The one she tried to run to when you were chasin' her," the Captain says. Mantlo's wings snap out. 

"For the last time, I  _loved_ my wife. I didn't hurt her, and before this moment I had no idea there was any safe room in my house."

Sherlock scoffs. "You get why that's hard for us to believe, don't you," the Captain asks.

"Look," Mantlo says. "The place was gutted before Amy and I moved in, two years ago. She's the one who oversaw all the construction."

"I'm sorry," Abreu laughs. "But are you saying that she had it installed, but never told you," Abreu asks, gesturing with his pen.

Joan looks away from the interrogation to examine her client. "How do you do it," she asks, voice soft.

"Do what," Sherlock asks, still watching.

"Guess things." Sherlock's wings ripple and she looks at her, almost glaring.

"I don't 'guess.' I observe. And once I observe, I deduce."

"You said you could tell by my hands that I used to be a surgeon."

"Hand. Singular. It was soft, no calluses. Also, it smelled faintly of beeswax."

"The cream," Joan realizes. "Old habits die hard," she mutters.

"As far as why you gave up medicine to become a companion," Sherlock says. Joan braces herself. "I'd wager that addiction claimed the life of someone close to you, and their death moved you to make drastic changes in your life. Am I close?"

_Finally. No._ But Joan ignores the question- this relationship is about Sherlock, not her. "What about my father? How did you know he had an affair?"

"Google." Joan's wings twitch. "Well, not  _everything_ is deducible."

Inside the interview room, both the Captain and Abreu stand up, and the women meet them in the hallway.

"I just wanted to say thanks for helping out today. You got us our guy, and we're grateful. We can take it from here," Abreu extends his hand.  _Even thankful to Sherlock, he's a dick._

"Respectfully, Detective, I doubt that very much. I have reason to believe that Richard Mantlo didn't kill his wife." 

"Wait, wait, wait, wait. Come again," Abreu demands. Joan is just as confused, and a look at the Captain reveals that he feels the same way. 

"Dr. Mantlo has small feet. He's an American size 8 if he's an inch. The bootprint on his door was an 11."

"So he was smart. Wore bigger shoes to throw us off," Abreu defends.

"Did he also wear bigger hands when he strangled his wife," Sherlock retorts.

"Holmes." It's her that gets the warning from the Captain this time.

"Just, look," Sherlock brings up photos on her phone, showing the men. "These strangulation marks are indicative of a man much larger than Mantlo. Not just heavier, but taller as well. I'd estimate his height to be somewhere between 6'1, 6'3. Your M.E. will come to the same conclusion in a couple of hours, of course. I'm just delivering it now so we can spend those hours hunting for the  _real_ killer." Abreu doesn't look convinced; neither does the Captain. "Y-you're a doctor," Sherlock says, turning to Joan. Joan stills, wings raising, while Gregson's twitch. "Explain it to them."

"I'm not a doctor," she tells the Captain.

" _Were_ a doctor. Surely you haven't forgotten how simple bruising works," she says, flippant. Joan glares at her, but looks at the phone. As much as she hates to admit it, Sherlock's right. The bruises are way too big for Mantlo's hands, which Sherlock had placed a picture of next to the image of Amy Dampier's neck. But she is  _not_ overstepping her bounds.

"Ok, yeah, sure, these hands do seem a little small for the bruise pattern, but I-"

"With your permission, Captain, I'd like a moment alone with Dr. Mantlo," Sherlock cuts her off.

"C-captain, this," Abreu laughs, wings fluffing. 

"You got two minutes," the Captain nods at Sherlock, ignoring his detective. Sherlock walks away and comes back with a legal pad and pen, going into the interrogation room. She comes back out after the allotted two minutes and gestures for Joan to follow her. Sherlock uses the computer on an officer's desk. 

"Come along," Sherlock says. "We're going to Sanbridge."

 

The women arrive at the hospital and get directed to a Harrison Polk. "Can I help you," the man asks.

"Do you know an Amy Dampier," Sherlock asks him.

"Of course. Why?"

"I'm sorry to inform you that she's been murdered."

"My God," Mr. Polk says. His long brown wings curl around him slightly. "Please, come." They walk with him. "Amy was a good person, but if you're here because you think I had something to do with it," he shakes his head.

"Dr. Mantlo said that you'd made a pass at her at a holiday party last year," Sherlock says.

"Actually, no, I didn't," Mr. Polk bites out, wings flaring. "I asked her about all the plastic surgery she'd had." He offers his office. Sherlock and Joan take him up on it.

"Plastic surgery," Sherlock asks.  _No need to gloat,_ Joan thinks, wings rippling. 

"Ok, look. I helped plan a fundraiser for the hospital, two years ago-"  _Damn it._ "-before the surgeries. I know I still have the pictures." Mr. Polk goes behind his desk and starts clicking at his computer. Joan spots a shoebox on the chair and reads the size. 11. She catches Sherlock's eye and points subtly with her wing. Sherlock nods, wings fluttering. Joan's own straighten. "There," Mr. Polk says, turning his computer around to show them the screen. "That's a picture of Amy and Dr. Mantlo I took that night, ok? Tell me  _you_ wouldn't want to ask her why she did it." Joan reluctantly agrees. Amy was naturally beautiful. 

"Tell me about the stalking charge brought against you two years ago," Sherlock says, looking at the hospital administrator. 

Mr. Polk crosses his arms, wings coming to gently curl around him. "I asked my neighbor out. She overreacted." Sherlock just hums.

"Mr. Polk, can you tell us where you were last night," Joan asks.

"Home. Alone. I know; not much of an alibi, but I don't care because I didn't do it."

"Goodbye, Mr. Polk," Sherlock nods, and they leave.

The women return to the brownstone- it's the end of the workday. The Captain had apparently informed Sherlock on the phone that she is not allowed to quote 'badger anyone in their own God-damned home.'

 

Joan is walking around Sherlock's home- and hers, for the next six weeks- getting settled when something drops on her. She looks up, expecting to find a leak. She does, but it's a different kind to what she was expecting. She heads to the roof.

"Did you know that honey was dripping through...your ceiling," she asks, fascinated by the bee boxes.

"Yes. Happens sometimes. I really must harvest," Sherlock muses. "But I hate to do it in the cold." Joan stands beside her and they watch the bees together. It's soothing in a way- watching the bees buzz and crawl, feeling the coolness of the night, the stars above.

"I take it beekeeping is a hobby."

"I'm writing a book. 'Practical Handbook of Bee Culture with Some Observations Upon the Segregation of the Queen.'" Joan looks- Sherlock doesn't have a tablet or even a notebook up here with her. She looks at her, confused. "Up here," Sherlock touches her temple. "I've just started chapter 19. Would you like to hear the last few paragraphs?"

"Did you talk to the police about that scary administrator guy?" Sherlock had walked away when she was on the phone with the Captain.

"I have not."

"But I thought that," Joan trails off when Sherlock just shrugs.

"Mr. Polk is a prat, no doubt, but his body language said 'sub,' not 'dom.' I don't see him having the berries to take another life." There's quiet for a few moments. "Why do you suppose you hate your job so much," she asks Joan, looking at her.

"I don't hate my job," Joan says, wings curling.

"You have two alarm clocks. No one with two alarm clocks loves their job- it means that it's a chore to get up in the morning." Sherlock watches her. Joan looks back at the bees, ignoring how her wings are curling towards her body. "You don't hate what I do, though." Joan looks at her client, wings twitching. "That much was obvious when we talked to Mr. Polk." Joan's wings move to hide her, but she forces them back. "There was a look on your face. I imagine it was the same look you wore to the O.R."

"You're wrong," Joan shakes her head, wings shivering. 

"I know my father secured your services for the next...six weeks," she checks. Joan nods. "The simple truth is, I don't need you; I'm finished with drugs. I shan't be using them again. My advice? Take a six week holiday. I promise I won't tell Papa."

Joan doesn't answer and goes back inside. She sits in her room and reads, thinking over what Sherlock had said.  _I don't hate my job. It's just difficult sometimes. Sure, Sherlock's job is interesting. I've never even heard of a consulting detective before. And the Captain seems nice. Abreu will take some getting used to. But I'm sure at the end of six weeks, we'll all be friendly._ She settles, smiling and letting her wings curl around her.  _But you'll miss them,_ that traitorous voice whispers.  _I miss everyone at the end of six weeks_ , she lies. Joan reads until she's tired, then turns off her lamp, curls her wings around herself, and goes to sleep.

 

Joan wakes up, parting her feathers and taking a lazy look at her clock to see how long she has to sleep. She blinks a few times and moves her wing to make sure she's seeing what she's seeing. Her clock is blank. She looks at the wall; it's been unplugged. She bolts out of bed, picking up her backup clock on her dresser- the batteries have been taken out. "Sherlock," she hisses, wings snapping out. She fumes all the way to the precinct. She manages to politely ask the first cop she sees, a man with medium sized wings so brown they're almost gold, where Sherlock is.

"In Evidence. Down the stairs, through the first hall, first door on your left through the gate."

"Thank you." 

The guy chuckles. "Yeah, she pisses everyone off," he nods at her wings. "Don't take it personal." Joan just nods and forces a smile, following his directions. She stands at the door of the cage Sherlock's in, working at the desk.

"I'm gonna need your saliva now," Joan says, faux calm. Sherlock looks over her wing- God, they're downright puny, she didn't even have to lower it- and turns. She checks her watch.

"10:37. I take back everything I said last night. You obviously love your job; couldn't wait to get started this morning." She stands and lets Joan in.

"Open your mouth so I can swab it. If you're on anything, the strip on the cup will turn blue."

"I'm not-" Joan sticks the swab in her mouth, collecting the sample with less grace than normal. "I have a new theory about our killer. I think he may have struck once before. I- who  _love_ _s_ what I do- woke up early this morning and couldn't stop thinking about the ring box he stole from Amy Dampier's living room."

"You said it was some sort of trophy," Joan says, watching the cup.

"And we all know what sort of killer takes trophies, don't we?"

"Serial," Joan looks up, heart thudding. Her wings fluff and move to wrap around her.  _We're hunting a serial killer_ , she thinks, brushing her feathers out of the way. 

Sherlock nods slowly. "Souvenirs help them differentiate between victims. It occurred to me that if Amy wasn't our killer's first, there may be other cases in common." She picks up a file and hands it over. Joan takes it with the hand not holding the cup. "Eileen Renfro. Savagely beaten and strangled by an intruder in her Bronx home two years ago. He took a jewelry box on his way out, but left behind a size 11 footprint." Joan admits to herself that it does sound familiar, but keeps her eye on the cup. It hasn't turned blue yet.

"Drug free. Congratulations."

"Especially striking, the physical similarities between her and Amy," Sherlock opens the file in Joan's hand while she pockets the cup to be thrown out later. "Both were curvaceous with long red hair."

"You think the killer has a type." She looks at the pictures; the women do look similar.  _Amy looks more like Eileen after her surgery. If she hadn't had it, maybe the killer would have left her alone._ The thought saddens her.

"Most serial killers do. The one significant difference in the cases, however- Eileen Renfro survived her attack." Joan looks up. She knows exactly where they're going now. Sherlock leaves the station.

"Aren't you going to tell the Captain before we leave?"

"Not until I know for sure this is a lead." Joan drives them to the Bronx.

 

Sherlock knocks on the door, and Eileen Renfro answers. She has average pale blue wings. "Yes," she asks, looking between Sherlock and Joan.

"Ms. Renfro, my name is Sherlock Holmes. I'm a consulting detective. This is Joan Watson. Some new information has come to light regarding your case. May we come in?"

"Of course," Eileen says, stepping inside. Joan lets Sherlock go first, and notes that she doesn't have to pull her wings in much to get through the narrow door and foyer. Joan, meanwhile, has to practically stick them straight off her back to fit. "Sorry for the tight squeeze, it came like that."

"It's alright, Ms. Renfro," Joan says.

They come into the living room, where Eileen sits on the couch and offers the chairs across from her. Joan politely drapes her wings over the back, but Sherlock sits with them right against her back. "Do you know this woman," Sherlock extends a photo of Amy Dampier when she was alive. 

"I'm sorry," Eileen says after a moment of studying it. "I can see why you think it might be the same guy. I just don't think I can help you. I don't know this woman." She hands the photo back. 

"We know from the police report that the man who assaulted you wore a mask. That doesn't mean you can't help us identify him. Did he say anything to you," Sherlock asks.

"No. I came in through my front door, and he was just there," she says, playing with her cross. Her wings fidget- it must be uncomfortable reliving it. 

"What color were his wings? Were they large or small?"

"They were brown, and they were...average, I guess."

"Did he have a particular scent?"

"Uh, no, I don't think so."

"Was he tall, short, somewhere in between?"

"I- I don't know. I mean, he was on top of me so quickly, his hands were around my throat."

"And what about the mask?"

"What about it?"

"W-was it ski, Mexican wrestling, paper plate?" 

Eileen's wings flare slightly at Sherlock's derisive tone. "Ski," she bites out.

"Good! Excellent! So you got a good look at his eyes. Correct me if I'm wrong, but a strangler can  _literally_ not be more than an arm's length from his stranglee, can he?" Sherlock extends her arms, and Eileen flinches. "I'm about the height of an average man, that's what, two-"

"Ms. Holmes," Joan says.

"-two and a half feet?" Sherlock drops her arms. "I'm twice that distance from you now, and I can see that your eyes are a lovely brown. As you can no doubt see that my eyes are blue."

"I think I'd like you to leave now," Eileen says, wings shivering.

"Why? Because I know you're lying?"

"Ms. Holmes," Joan exclaims, wings flaring.

"No, she is," Sherlock whirls on her. Both of her wings are fluffed up, feathers nearly on end with anger. It would be almost pitiful how much Joan could see each feather if she wasn't so appalled. "You can tell by the crucifix. You fiddle with it each time I ask you a question. It's pacifying, soothing behavior. And her wings, they're shivering in nervousness. Elementary haptic communication. Just read a  _book_ , would you," she snaps. "She did see-"

"Sherlock!"

"- her attacker's face. I think she might even know who he is!"

"Get out," Eileen says.

"You realize that because you protected him two years ago, you have the blood of an innocent woman on your hands, don't you? Perhaps you'd like to go for two. Or three, or four."

"That's enough," Joan says, standing with flared wings. Sherlock looks up at her. "You're done here. Go wait in the car."

Sherlock grits her teeth but goes. Joan sits back down and looks at Eileen, who now has her wings wrapped around herself, only her head showing. "What an asshole," she mutters.

"I'm...I'm really sorry about that," Joan says. Eileen looks down. "Are you ok?"

"No. She's right."

"About what," Joan asks, wings twitching in interest. 

"I have that woman's blood on my hands."

"No, you don't. You didn't kill her."

"But Peter did," Eileen whispers.

"Who's Peter?" Eileen looks at her, shocked. She obviously hadn't meant  to say that out loud. "Who's Peter, Ms. Renfro?"

 

Joan joins Sherlock outside. The woman is pacing, wings snapping out at random intervals. Thank God no one is on the street, otherwise she'd look like a crazy person. "The name of the man who attacked her is Peter Saldua," Joan says, drawing her attention. "He was her brother's best friend growing up. His father was abusive, so her parents took him in his senior year of high school. Eileen heard from her brother that he works for a florist in Chelsea." With every word, Sherlock's feathers calm. She'll have to groom them back into place, of course, but they're almost back to normal.

"I knew it," Sherlock chuckles. "I knew that if I started a row in there, you'd come to her defense, and if you came to her defense she might very well tell you the truth."

"You are so full of shit." Sherlock is already dialing her phone and ignores her. Sherlock presses her phone to her ear with her shoulder as she wraps her right wing around herself, giving herself a quick rub. The feathers fall back into place with minimal effort, much to Joan's shock. If she did that to her own wings, the feathers would barely budge. Sherlock's are just that thin. 

"Captain," Sherlock greets. "I'm calling because I believe I've uncovered the name of a strong suspect in the murder of Amy Dampier." She pauses, frowning. "How did you know?" Sherlock's feathers start to lift out of place again. "Are you saying he's in police custody?" Joan wonders how the police could have known if Sherlock hadn't told them about Eileen Renfro. Sherlock's wings snap out. "Bollocks." Sherlock listens for a moment and then hangs up. "Peter Saldua is dead. Looks like a suicide. Come." Sherlock gets in the passenger side and Joan in the driver's. Sherlock lets her phone's GPS take over while she grooms herself. Two minutes later, she's all put together. Even a quick groom should take at least twenty minutes for an average sized pair of wings.

 

They arrive at the house and Sherlock immediately starts looking around. But she stays in the area to listen to the Captain. "Mailman saw the body through the window. Called 911, said he thought someone on his route had killed themself. Turns out he was right. The gun was still in Saldua's hand when we got here." Sherlock looks at him. "I know, told the M.E. to take a close look at this one. Watch the blood spatter," he says to Joan, who looks at where he's pointing- her wing is nearly touching the bloody wall. She tucks her wings in tighter. "Takes some getting used to," the Captain nods. "We found the ring box from Amy Dampier's home right here," he points to the table.

"Turns out Mantlo and his wife used the florist Saldua worked for. They order fresh flowers to the house once a week, Saldua was the guy who delivered them," Abreu chimes in. He shrugs. "Explains why she would have let him in the other night."

Sherlock looks over to the other side of the room. Joan follows her gaze and there's an overturned-and-stomped-on washing machine. "What happened over there," Sherlock asks.

"Mixed his colors with his whites? Who knows, guy was a nut bar," Abreu scoffs. Sherlock's wings twitch. 

"Did you already take his phone," Sherlock asks.

"It hasn't turned up yet. But it will." The Captain sounds confident. The men walk off, talking quietly. Joan goes up to Sherlock.

"You wanted to be the one who found him, didn't you?"

"I don't do what I do for the credit."

"Then why do you do it?"

Sherlock walks away.

 

When they're home for the night, Joan watches Sherlock carefully. She's pacing and staring at her wall of evidence, feathers raised. "Sherlock, what do you need?" She ignores her. "Sherlock." Joan goes to her room and reads for a bit when it's clear that Sherlock needs some time alone. 

Joan comes out when she hears Mantlo's voice. She looks- Sherlock had been watching the news. "She had her mole removed when she changed her look," Sherlock says, and Joan's wings spread at her voice- she'd been silent for nearly four hours now. "It doesn't make any sense. She  _loved_ that mole- before the surgeries she turned her head to feature it whenever her picture was taken." Joan looks at the wall.

"Where'd you get those photographs," she asks. They all showcase Amy Dampier, pre plastic surgery.

"I reached out to Amy's friends and family via her Facebook page, they provided them. Harrison Polk was right. She was as beautiful before her surgeries as she was after, so why bother, what was the point," Sherlock says, gesticulating at the wall with paper in her hand. "And another thing!" She opens her hand, and Joan sees lines of numbers on the paper. "Saldua's phone records indicate that he used his cell phone  _constantly_. Then three days ago, he just stopped. Didn't make a single call, didn't send a single text. Why?' She throws the packet down onto the table and picks up another. "His bank statements, meanwhile. There are several checks made out to a Dr. Roland Jessup, psychologist. He seems worth a talking to, no? No! Dropped dead of a coronary, 2010." She throws down the new papers in disgust and rubs her face, wings twitching.

"The Amy Dampier case is over. You helped solve it," Joan reassures her.

"No. Something's off, I can feel it." The printer starts up, and Joan crosses over to it, smiling softly. "What's that?"

"I got us tickets to the opera tonight. To celebrate! When your father hired me, he mentioned something about you liking it so I thought-" Sherlock cuts her off with a dry laugh. 

"I went to  _Le Grande Macabre_ once, when I was nine, now I'm a buff," she exclaims, walking past Joan. She starts pacing again.

"I'm worried about you," Joan admits. Her own wings twitch in sympathy as she watches Sherlock's flare and flap. "I think you're making things more complicated than they really are, and it tells me you're struggling."

"No struggle at all. Or haven't you been paying attention the last few days? I've been right about everything."

"Actually, you haven't," Joan admits, wings drooping. If this is what it takes to get her client to calm down, then so be it. "The day we met, you deduced that I gave up being a surgeon to become a companion because I lost someone close to me to addiction. The truth is-"

"The truth is that you made a mistake during a surgery that cost the patient their life." Joan is floored, and Sherlock looks at her, wings flared. "It takes years of study to become a surgeon, not to mention tremendous ego. To literally hold someone's life in your hands," she shakes her head. "They don't just leave to become addict-sitters. They're forced out. And they're only forced out if they commit the sin of malpractice." Sherlock sighs and gestures vaguely. "I knew it would be a delicate subject so I made up the bit about your friend to...spare your feelings."

Joan's wings spread slightly. Spare her feelings? She has the feeling that Sherlock doesn't do that very often. "That was very big of you." She pauses. "How do you know the patient died?" Sherlock's wings lift slowly. "How do you know I didn't just leave him paralyzed or in a coma?"

"The parking ticket!" Sherlock's wings snap out the rest of the way. "The one you had in your purse. It was," she takes a breath. "You incurred it two weeks ago near the corner of 86th and 3rd. The only thing there is Carver Cemetery. You were visiting a grave. Not a parent's grave, of course, Google indicates that they're alive and well. Siblings? No, Carver is a pauper's field. The picture you keep in your phone says that your parents are well-to-do, no sibling of yours would be interred in a place like that. Carver doesn't even have a proper parking area, hence the ticket. So! A surgeon who's no longer a surgeon, a parking violation incurred outside a poor man's cemetery, and two parents who are as moneyed as they are alive. Add it all up, and what does it say," Sherlock gestures. "You were visiting the grave of the man you let die on your operating table." 

Joan nods slowly. Her wings had been drooping slowly throughout Sherlock's speech. It's so incredible," she whispers. "The way you can solve people just by looking at them. I noticed you don't have any mirrors around here."  _That_ gets the biggest reaction out of Sherlock yet- her wings snap out so violently that she knocks half the papers to the floor.

"And what's that supposed to mean," she snarls.

"It means I think you know a lost cause when you see one. Tomorrow I'll arrange for a new companion, but tonight I've got plans." Joan takes her jacket and bag and walks out the door.

Joan has to stand outside the door for a moment, breathing in the night air. She has to calm down before she gets in the car. Once she takes a couple of deep breaths, she walks to it. 

Once she gets to the opera, she makes a stop at the designated grooming area. She uses her own tools rather than the sanitized ones provided; it gives her that extra bit of comfort, having the familiar feel of them in her hand. Twenty minutes later, she's shining. She walks into the seating area and finds her seat, draping her wings over the back and into the designated pocket. The opera starts, and Joan allows the music to wash over her. For the first time that night, she's happy.

 

Halfway through the first act, she hears Sherlock whisper her name loudly. She looks down the row, shocked to see the woman leant over at the end. Sherlock gestures for her to come, but Joan shakes her head. Sherlock slides through the row to much grumbling from the other attendees. She drops into the seat next to her, and Joan regrets leaving Sherlock's ticket on the table. "Peter Saldua felt rage the night he killed Amy Dampier," Sherlock begins. "Now, he had some measure of control-"

"You're not here right now," Joan says. "I don't hear you, I don't see you-" A little childish, maybe, but at least she's not covering her ears.

"Shall I speak up," Sherlock asks loudly, even louder than normal speaking tone. In the quiet crowd, it's almost deafening. Joan shoots her a shocked look, wings fluffing. "He had some measure of control with Eileen Renfro," Sherlock continues, whispering again. "But not with Amy. Why? Tell me, what exactly does a Xanax tablet look like?"

"Small, white or yellow, ovular. Why?"

Sherlock puts her phone to her ear, and Joan stares at her.  _Really?_

"Detective Abreu, please."

A lady in front of them turns and shushes them, wings flared.

"Shh yourself. She's not even on key." Abreu must pick up. "Sherlock Holmes." A pause while Abreu no doubt complains. "Princess Diana was Welsh. No, no! The pill vial from Saldua's home, I know it was taken into evidence. I need you to get it for me." A pause. "The pills inside should be white or yellow and ovular, but they aren't, are they? They're round and pink." Sherlock hangs up after just a moment. "I need a ride, right now."

"I'm in the middle of something."

Sherlock sighs. "You were right, the other day. About Eileen Renfro. I had no idea she would respond to you the way that she did. I just told you I did because I...I was embarrassed I lost my temper. Would I have gotten to the truth some other way? Of course, but you got me there faster. Now,  _please_ , how fast can you get me to Sanbridge Hospital?" Joan smiles privately. 

"Let's go." They leave, much to the others' relief- they move much more easily out of their way.

 

Sherlock bounces her leg in her seat once they're in the car, wings fluttering. "Groom," Joan says softly. "It'll make you feel better."

"You know, the endorphins released by grooming can be stimulated by other means," Sherlock remarks.

"If you mean drugs-"

"No, not drugs, though those do the trick. I mean, you can mentally stimulate them." Sherlock goes quiet, and her leg and wings stop moving. Joan just shakes her head and keeps driving.

They arrive at Sanbridge and wait.

 

Soon enough, Dr. Mantlo starts walking down the steps. The women get out.

"Stay here," Sherlock says, and Joan does, watching her. Sherlock and Mantlo have a discussion, Sherlock's wings flaring, and then they part. 

"What did he say," Joan asks.

"He said that he did it."

Joan's wings half snap out. He actually admitted it? "Well, we have to tell the police!"

"No point," Sherlock shakes her head, pacing. "We don't have any proof, and he knows it. I need your car keys."

"What, why?"

"Car keys!" Joan hands them over. Sherlock walks away, wings flared. 

_Maybe she just wants to drive._ Joan follows her slowly. Sherlock gets in and starts the car, peeling out. Joan watches her slam into the side of Mantlo's car and jumps, wings wrapping around her. She peeks through the feathers and sees Sherlock get out. Sherlock walks past a stunned Mantlo to sit on the hospital steps next to Joan.

"Why'd you do that," Joan demands. Sherlock is silent. Joan huffs and waits. Mantlo must have called the police, because two squad cars come.

"What happened here," a police officer who approaches them asks, as his partner goes to Mantlo.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock says. "I crashed my associate's car into Dr. Richard Mantlo's."

The cop looks at Joan. "And who are you?"

"Joan Watson," she introduces herself. 

"Did you witness it?" Joan hesitates.

"She did," Sherlock nods.

"Stand up," the cop says. Sherlock obeys, turning around and offering her wrists. The cop cuffs her.

"Do you need a lift," he asks Joan. "You can get in the other car if you do." Joan checks on Sherlock.

"You should."

"Thank you. I think I will." The cop turns to face the other squad car and makes a motion. 

"You can go," he nods to her. 

"Thank you." Joan walks to the other car and a woman gets out to open the back door for her. Joan thanks her.

"Where to," her partner asks.

"Wherever they're taking Sherlock. We need to talk."

"We need to wait for the tow truck first."

"Of course."

Joan sits there and thinks. Sherlock doesn't seem like a person who does things on a whim. There has to be a reason. That must have been a stunt to put Mantlo off,  _something_. It couldn't have just been anger, no matter what Sherlock's wings said. Maybe she faked it, or it was excitement that made them extend. She talks with the tow truck driver, almost forgetting her words the second they leave her mouth, and then she's driven to the jail. Joan makes a call while she waits.

"Hi, this is Joan Watson," she says into the voicemail. "Your daughter got into some trouble tonight. She crashed into a car. She's fine, as far as I can tell. And before you ask, drugs weren't involved. I would like to stay on as her companion, if you don't mind. Thank you, goodbye." She hangs up.

Twenty minutes later, her phone pings with a new email. She checks it.

'Mr. Holmes would like you to know that he received your message, and he understands if you'd like to leave. But since you expressed interest in staying, he has no objections. Since his conditions were not violated, Ms. Holmes will be allowed to stay at the allotted property. But no other transgressions will be tolerated. Thank you. -Harrison Jacobson, Mr. Holmes' assistant.'

Joan nods and puts her phone away.

 

Soon enough, she sees Sherlock arrive through the door on the other side of the glass. She meets her there, and they pick up their respective phones.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock starts. "Not just for your car- which I'll pay for, it really wasn't much of a loss- but for the way I spoke to you earlier. I knew that the death of your patient would be a sore spot. I just-"

"Couldn't help yourself. Yeah, I'm starting to see how that could be a thing with you." An insult about her car wrapped in an apology, for starters.

"I assume you've told my father about what happened tonight." Joan lets her silence answer that for her. Sherlock nods, wings drooping. "I'm going to miss that brownstone."

"Actually, you're not." Sherlock's wings perk right back up. "I spoke with him, and since what you did at the hospital had nothing to do with drugs, he's agreed to give you another chance."

"You've decided to stay on as my companion, haven't you," Sherlock asks, a small smile on her face. "You never would have agreed if you hadn't." Her wings flutter just slightly- so slight that Joan would have missed it if not for the stillness of the room and the stark contrast of Sherlock's black feathers against the white wall. "I'm very pleased, Watson." Joan shoots her a look. "For myself, of course, but for you as well. I happen to think there's some hope for you as an investigator."

Joan's flattered, but her? An investigator? She doesn't think so. "I want you to let me in on the rest of the plan." At Sherlock's confused look, she elaborates. "To get Mantlo. I know you wouldn't have wrecked my car unless it was part of some elaborate-" she cuts herself off when she sees Sherlock's slightly sheepish face. "Temper tantrum. Right."

"Correct. Again, I apologize."

"In that case, I want you to tell me about London."

Sherlock's wings lift. "Big place. Lots of rain."

Joan is used to these sort of evasive tactics and caution from her previous clients. "I want you to tell me what happened to you in London."

"Why is it so important to you," Sherlock tries to turn it around on her. Joan won't let her.

"Because if I'm going to stay with you, I need to know everything."

"Actually, you don't need to know anything other than the fact I'm a recovering addict. You just  _want_ to know about London because you think it'll connect us in a more meaningful way. But in case you hadn't noticed, I don't have meaningful connections," Sherlock retorts. Joan looks down and smiles.  _There it is._ "Why are you smiling," Sherlock demands.

"Because now I know it was a woman." Joan remembers the woman she had seen getting dressed in Sherlock's window, just a couple of days ago. 

"It could be a man," Sherlock says. "I  _am_ bisexual. But what makes you think it was anyone?"

"You're trying too hard. Just like you were the other day with that tattooed woman. All that 'sex is repellent' crap. You  _can_ connect to people. It just frightens you." Joan watches Sherlock's reaction to her words. Her wings never stopped moving; here drooping, here spreading, here twitching. Now, they still after Sherlock has run the gamut of emotions.

"My bail hearing is at 9:00 tomorrow. I trust I'll see you there."

Joan goes home for the night.

 

Joan wakes up at 8:00, ready to go meet Sherlock. But she takes one last look at the evidence in the room before she goes. She turns to leave, but had misjudged the distance- her wing knocks over some papers. She sighs and kneels, collecting them. She pauses when she sees handwritten capital letters. "Rice," she whispers, confused. She looks through the crime scene photos until she finds the one she's looking for. She looks between the photo and the form, frowning. "Why would he," she wonders. Her alarm beeps, and she checks- she's going to be late. She stows the evidence and goes.

 

Joan meets Sherlock on the courthouse steps. "You're late, Ms. Watson. That barrister was rubbish."

"I need to show you something," Joan says, taking the photo and form out of her bag. "Look here," she points to the writing. "Weird, right?"

"No, actually," Sherlock says, wings spreading. "Not even a little." She picks up her phone and dials. "Captain," she greets. A pause. "Very funny. Now, I need you to call Mantlo in." Pause. "I'll explain when I get in. We've found something." Joan's wings straighten.  _We._ She likes the sound of that.

 

They get into the station, and Sherlock leads them right to the Captain's office, whose door is open. He's sitting at his desk, reading some papers, but looks up at their approach. "Now, what has you so excited," he asks Sherlock, whose wings are still wide. "You spent the night in jail. Explain yourself." He takes off his glasses.

"Mantlo admitted to me that he killed his wife."

The Captain sits straight up, wings flaring. "What?"

"He used hypotheticals, and I had no evidence. Until now."

Sherlock slides the paper across his desk, and he picks it up. "What exactly am I supposed to be looking at here," he asks, putting his glasses back on.

"Known allergies," Joan says.

"Ok," Gregson says slowly.

"Now look," Sherlock hands him the photo. He looks at it over his glasses and his wings twitch. 

"Ok, I admit, it's weird. But why is it important? He could've had rice for guests."

"Did Peter Saldua seem like a man who had many guests," Sherlock asks.

"No," the Captain admits.

"I believe there's a reason he purchased that bag of rice, and I might even be able to tell you when he did."

"Are you gonna make me ask?"

"I believe that if we check his bank records, he bought it three days ago." The Captain just lifts his hand in a 'so' motion. Joan doesn't get it, either. "The same day he stopped using his phone." The Captain looks blank for a second until his face lights up.  _What am I missing,_ Joan wonders.

"Let's go," he stands, leading the women out. They take his car, Joan sitting in the back. "What made you think of this," he asks.

"Ms. Watson actually spotted it."

He looks in the rearview mirror at her. "Good catch." She smiles softly.

"Thank you."

 

They arrive at Peter Saldua's home. Sherlock beelines to the pantry, putting on gloves. She reaches into the rice and smiles, taking her hand out. In it is a cell phone. The Captain's wings spread, then relax. "There's no battery," he points out. Sherlock puts the phone on the counter and reaches back into the bag, coming up with it. 

"How did you know it would be in there," Joan asks.

"The pills in Saldua's pill bottle, the ones marked 'Xanax,' they were steroids."

"Steroids," the Captain questions, wings flaring. "Boy, that would have gotten him riled up if he was popping them."

"To put it mildly," Joan agrees, still waiting for how Sherlock knew the phone would be in the rice.

"And now the washer makes sense," Sherlock gestures. "He left his phone in his pocket when he threw his trousers in the wash. He realized too late and destroyed the washer."  _Why would he care that much_ , Joan wonders. Before she can open her mouth to ask, Sherlock answers. "When I read Jessup's file with you," she directs to the Captain, and Joan's wings twitch. She looks at his left hand- there's a ring there. She never pegged Sherlock as a homewrecker. "No, we're not sleeping together. Saldua was recording his sessions on his phone. Which, I believe, if we listen to," she places the battery back in and looks through it, pressing a button. 

"Her name is Amy," a voice they assume is Saldua's says on the recording. "And when I see her, I get these feelings and- you have to tell me how to stop myself from hurting her, Dr. Mantlo, I don't want to hurt her, please!" The Captain's and Joan's wings perk up when they hear the name.

"It's ok, Peter. I'm here for you. Let's try upping your meds, see where that gets us." Sherlock ends the recording. 

"Looks like I'll be calling Mantlo in to 'apologize.' Good job, Ms. Watson."

 

Joan watches Sherlock explain everything to Mantlo. They have him dead to rights; she just wants to see how he reacts. He has nearly complete control over himself until they play him the tape- then, his wings slump and he bows over.

"Celebrate tonight," Joan asks as they walk out of the Captain's office, Abreu leading Mantlo out in cuffs in front of them.

"Sure."

"Dinner? But first, there's a Mets game on. You can make it up to me for last night."

"Very well."

 

Joan puts on her Mets hat and sits in front of the TVs. She gets through nearly the entire game, cheering and wincing by turns, before Sherlock says anything.

"Can we please go to dinner now?"

"It's the bottom of the 9th, the Mets are within one, and no one is out." She sees the look Sherlock is giving her. "Don't look at me like that. You agreed to make it up to me."

"That was before I got hungry. Isn't paying for your car making it up to you enough?"

"Just because you don't understand something doesn't mean that it's not awesome," Joan says, wings spreading.

"Actually, Watson, I'm quite familiar with the great American pastime. The other addicts at Hemdale would often gather in the common room to watch matches on the telly."

"Ok, first of all, they're 'games,' not 'matches.'"

"I also find the science of the sport quite fascinating. All of the statistical analysis, all of the strategy. So, if you'll allow me to save us both a little time," she trails off, sitting forward. She studies the screen for a second. "Pop-up to center, intentional walk, game-ending double play. Final score: Reds of Cincinnati 3, Metropolitans of New York 2."

"Yeah, right. Nice try."

"A high fly ball again," Cohen says on the TV. 

"I'll meet you at the door," Sherlock says.

The Reds centerfielder catches the ball, one out. The catcher stands and holds his glove out to the side, and the pitcher walks the batter. Joan stands and goes behind her chair, hands braced on the back of it. When the next batter hits a ground ball behind the second baseman and the Reds turn the double play, she groans and folds her wings around her head.  _Why am I a suffering Mets fan_ , she wonders.  _I should use Sherlock to place bets._ She never would, of course. She sighs and straightens, joining Sherlock downstairs. Sherlock helps her into her jacket, and Joan tucks her wings and pops them through the slits. 

"Ready," Joan asks. Sherlock opens the door for her. Joan walks out, Sherlock following her.


	3. Pokemon AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A pokemon AU.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's pretend that both animals and pokemon exist in this universe. Just so I don't have the horror of thinking Sherlock keeps hundreds of beedrills on her roof. And I've always thought pokemon were able to understand humans, so roll with that.

"Excuse me, Ms.-" Sherlock shushes the woman. "My name is Joan Watson. I've been hired by your father to be your sober companion, he told me he was going to email you about me. I'm here to make the transition from your rehab experience to the routine of your everyday life as smooth as possible, so I will be living with you for the next six weeks, which means I'll be available to you 24/7."  _You got here fast, Ms. Watson._ Sherlock pauses the TVs and turns to examine Joan Watson; long black hair, short stature, brown eyes, Chinese ancestry, beautiful, good posture (so she was trained to be formal, probably from her mother) non-smoker, didn't ever have a problem with drugs or alcohol. There's a female swablu sitting on her head, no doubt comforting itself from the desire to clean the messy brownstone. 

"Do you believe in love at first sight," Sherlock asks. Watson freezes. "I know what you're thinking- the world is a cynical place and I must be a cynical person, thinking a woman like you would fall for a line like that. The thing is, it isn't a line, so please hear me when I say this. I have never loved anyone as I do you, right now, in this moment." Sherlock had been steadily advancing on a stunned Watson, and now they're nearly nose-to-nose. Or, rather, they would be if Sherlock wasn't significantly taller. Sherlock reaches around her and starts the TV behind her. Watson drops her purse at the noise.

"Do you believe in love at first sight," the actor on the screen asks. Sherlock watches, making sure she got every word right.

"Spot on. Sherlock Holmes," she extends her hand. Watson shakes it and then kneels to clean up the mess, her swablu helping. Sherlock surreptitiously gives her hand a single sniff. Beeswax. Not from her, of course, she hasn't collected wax in two weeks, so it's transfer. Sherlock catalogues the items in Watson's purse. The obnoxious orange of a parking violation catches her attention, and she reads the address before Watson's swablu pushes it back into the bag. Watson stands, mess cleaned. "Please don't get comfortable, we won't be staying long." Sherlock puts her fingers in her mouth and whistles for Verland. The vulpix comes when called and looks up at her. Sherlock acknowledges him with a small nod.

"Ms. Holmes, did your father tell you about me or not," Watson asks before Sherlock walks away. Watson and their respective pokemon follow her. 

"Uh, he emailed. Said to expect some sort of addict-sitter," she replies, sitting on her leather pouf. Honestly, she hadn't given it more than a skim. She puts on her shoe and looks for the other one until Verland brings it to her from where it had landed across the room. Sherlock's not surprised- it had been quite a while since she'd had sex. Ninety-five days, to be exact. She had been eager. She takes the shoe with a thankful head touch and puts it on as she stands, rolling her shoulders.

"Then you know the conditions that pertain to your sobriety?"

Sherlock scoffs. Conditions. Her father always has conditions, why not in regard to something as tenuous as sobriety? Tenuous for other people, of course. She will be in a permanent state of it. "If you're referring to the fact that he will evict me from the shoddiest and least-renovated of his five, count them five, properties in New York, then yes. I use, I wind up on the street. I refuse your so-called 'help,' I wind up on the street." She starts looking through the laundry bag for a shirt. She finds one and sniffs it, offering it to Verland. He sniffs and shakes his head. She finds another and presents it. This one gets a nod. Sherlock pulls on the shirt- the one that proclaims that she's not lucky, she's good- and looks at Watson. "It's my understanding that most sober companions are recovering addicts themselves, but you've never had a problem with drugs or alcohol." She had given the pamphlets at Hemdale a once-over when she heard that her father was sending one. 

"Your father told you."

"Of course he didn't." Her father never shares interesting information with her. Actually, he almost never shares any information unless it benefits him. 

"Care to tell me why you escaped your rehab facility on the day you were being released?"

"Bored," Sherlock announces as she puts on a vest. She flicks her hair out from both it and the shirt.

"You escaped because you were bored," Watson asks. An understandable misunderstanding.

"No, I am bored right now," Sherlock amends. "That happens a lot, you'll get used to it. As for our friends at Hemdale, they should be thanking me for exposing the flaws in their rubbish security." Sherlock had calculated no less than twenty-seven means of escaping without detection. She had only used one.

"The woman who was here; was she getting you high?"

"Six feet, actually." Watson gives her a quizzical look and she gestures to the ladder, pulling her belt down from where she had hung it below two of her sets of handcuffs. In retrospect, she should have put it somewhere else- it had been uncomfortable against her back. Next time, she'll know better. "I actually find sex quite repellent," she says, putting the belt on. "All those unseemly sounds and fluids. But my brain and body need it to function at optimal capacity so I feed it as needed. In my opinion, too many people deny their bodies what they crave. I am not one of them. You're a doctor, surely you understand."

The swablu flutters her wings, distressed. Watson handles it better. "I'm not a doctor."

"Were a doctor, then. A surgeon, judging by your hands. Is your car parked nearby?"

"Yes, it's just- how did you know I had a car?"

"Parking ticket fell out of your bag when you dropped it," Sherlock explains, taking out her phone. She starts checking the traffic. "Can't have one without the other, can you?" She hums, studying the news. "Scratch the car, Manhattan Bridge is down to a single lane. We'll take the Tube." She puts on her coat and taps her chest. Verland jumps up and sits on her shoulders, winding himself around her neck and settling, tails curling. The swablu follows his lead and sits on Watson's head once more. They walk to the subway station, blessedly silent until they're on the train when Sherlock breaks it.

"Prior to my stint in junkie jail, I worked at Scotland Yard."

"Your father mentioned," Watson nods, pleased that Sherlock is speaking. "He said you were a detective."

"Consulting detective," Sherlock stresses. "I wasn't paid for my insights and therefore I answered to no one but myself."

"About London. What happened?"

"What do you mean?"

"Your father said he thinks something happened to you there."  _Mm. More than I thought he would notice._ Watson's phone rings and both women look down. There's a picture of a good-looking couple- the Watsons- on the screen. Watson ignores the call.

"Handsome woman, your mother," Sherlock says, gaining Watson's attention. "It was very big of her to take your father back after his affair."

"How could you possibly," Watson starts. The train stops. 

"We're here." Sherlock walks out. She hears Watson try to keep up with her longer strides.

"You haven't told me where 'here' is," Watson protests, catching up.

"You and Father both will be pleased to know that I have constructed a post-rehab regimen for myself that will keep me quite busy. I have decided to continue my consulting work here, in New York." They arrive down the street from the crime scene and Sherlock takes in the controlled chaos. She's missed it. She walks down the street but stops and turns to Watson before they reach it. "How do people usually introduce you?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that I find it hard to believe that people would admit that they've been assigned a glorified helper monkey." This time, Watson does react- she leans back and her swablu squeaks in indignation. 

"'Helper monkey?' Well, you and I have what's called companion-client privilege. You can introduce me however you like- friend, family- and I'll play along. But honestly, most people just call me their companion."

Sherlock nods and approaches the crime scene tape. "Captain Gregson," she calls. The man turns and approaches them after dismissing the officer he had been speaking with.

"Ah, Holmes," Gregson greets, laughing softly. "How you doing?" They shake hands.

"Ms. Joan Watson, this is Captain Gregson. Captain, this is Ms. Watson, my personal valet." Sherlock sees Watson give her a significant glance, but she recovers quickly.

"Pleasure," Watson extends her hand.

"How do you do," he shakes it. "She waits out here," he tells Sherlock.

"I'm afraid she's quite crucial to my process," Sherlock replies. Might as well have her tag along at work as well as everywhere else.

"It's ok, really," Watson says to try to placate Gregson.

"Actually, it isn't," Sherlock turns to face her, disregarding Gregson for the time being. He won't mind. "At least, not according to my father's email. He said that it is the job of a proper valet to accompany their charge to their place of business. Well, consider this," she gestures at the crime scene, "my place of business. Consider every wretched hive of depravity and murder in this city my place of business." Sherlock pauses, gauging Watson's reaction. "Unless, of course, you don't think you have the stomach for the work I do."

Watson never breaks eye contact. "I'm good." Sherlock turns back to a resigned Gregson.

"Put these on, please, and return your pokemon to its ball," the Captain says. Sherlock puts on a pair of gloves that she'd brought with her and puts them on. Verland leaps off of Sherlock's shoulder at the same time she tosses his ball, and they meet in midair. She picks the pokeball off the ground and pockets it. Gregson lifts the tape for them and they follow him. 

"Dr. Richard Mantlo came home a few hours ago to find his door kicked in and his wife, Amy Dampier, missing." The trio pause at the door. Sherlock takes out her phone and uses the light and magnifying attachment to examine the bootprint. Gregson knows her process by now, so he leaves her be. She takes a picture and then straightens, ready for more information.

They walk inside. "That's Mantlo over there," Gregson lowers his voice, pointing to a man with an audino next to him. Sherlock only gives them a glance before she continues into the living room. "He's a headshrinker out of Sanbridge Hospital. Says he caught an emergency last night, didn't get home 'til 5 A.M. Saw the front door, called 911. First officers on the scene found signs of a struggle in the kitchen and master bedroom, but no Ms. Dampier. Her pokemon, a poliwag, was bound and gagged, eyes blindfolded."

Sherlock looks around, something pricking at her. "Ransom demand?"

"Mm," Gregson shakes his head. "What is it?"

"Not sure," she admits. "Ms. Dampier's cell phone, have you recovered it?"

"We have her cell phone," Gregson asks the room at large. A man brings a bag over to them. "Ah, thank you, Detective." He hands Sherlock the bag, and she slides the phone out into her palm. She starts looking through the photo gallery, humming.

"She either lost a tremendous amount of weight or underwent significant plastic surgery sometime in the last two years."

"She looks the same in all the photos," Watson says, and Sherlock looks at her- she's looking at the photos on the wall.

"That's my point," Sherlock nods. Watson sees, but does not observe. But she does see more than most. "Ovular frames are older, have been here longer. You can tell by the way the wall has faded. Square frames newer. The square frames are the only ones that feature Ms. Dampier. Coincidence? No. Check her cell phone." Sherlock steps between them and allows them to look. She flicks through the pictures slowly for them. "No pictures of her older than two years. Yet there are countless photos of other people in her life as many as five years ago." She puts the phone back in the bag and walks to the kitchen. 

There's a Hispanic man in there, writing on a notepad. He watches her as she looks around the kitchen. She looks down at the broken glass on the floor, quickly realizing something.

"Captain, if you please," she calls. Gregson appears in the doorway with Watson behind him.

"Yeah?'

"Ms. Dampier knew her attacker. She let him into the house herself."

The detective scoffs. "Captain, who is this chick?"

"There are two broken glasses here. You can tell by the volume of the shards. Obviously, she was pouring a glass of water for her guest when he assailed her."

"Right," the detective draws out. "You're a female. Is that what you would do if some nutjob kicked your door in, you ask if he's thirsty?"

"Abreu," Gregson admonishes.

"I only see one bottom," Watson says, dubious. Sherlock looks at her. Quite astute, noticing that. Perhaps the second bottom went...Sherlock gets down on her belly and looks under the fridge. She stands up.

"Could I," she asks, and Abreu unwittingly gives her his pen that he'd been pointing at her. She gets down again and reaches under the fridge with her new tool to retrieve the bottom she had seen. She gingerly picks it up off the floor and balances it in her palm. "Base of glass number two." She puts the glass on the counter and hands the pen back to a flabbergasted detective. "If you take another look at the bootprint on the door, you'll see a nearly imperceptible spot of blood where the heel made contact." She extends her phone to Gregson, who puts on reading glasses to see.  _Those are new,_ she notes. Though she supposes she shouldn't be surprised- the Captain is over fifty now. "Lab tests, I'm certain, will confirm that it's Ms. Dampier's blood, and could only have been transferred there  _after_ the assault had already taken place." Abreu looks at her, still reeling. "Ms. Dampier let the man in because he was familiar to her, and he kicked the door in on his way out to try to obscure this fact. Quite clever," she nods.

"That's the last thing we need, a smart maniac," Abreu grumbles. She ignores him. 

"Also, he took something from the living room," she gestures. Gregson and Watson step aside and Sherlock steps over the glass to get to the room. The trio follows her. Sherlock extends her hands to the wall of pictures. "Note the symmetry of the space. This wall is very nearly a reflection of that one. With one exception." Before she can continue, Watson chimes in.

"There. There's a box on that side but not on this one," she points. Sherlock looks at her, impressed. Mantlo wanders into the room.

"Hey, something was here, what was it," Sherlock asks him. His audino hugs his leg and whimpers.

"I- I'm sorry," Mantlo asks.

"Maybe this isn't the best time," Watson says, stepping closer to her.

"Please concentrate," Sherlock tells Mantlo, ignoring Watson. "This is important. Something used to occupy that space. I need you to tell me what it was." Mantlo looks at where she's pointing, then at Gregson.

"She's our consultant, Dr. Mantlo."

"Uh, it was an old...ring box. Amy's grandmother gave it to her. Why?"

"You said there was also signs of struggle in the master bedroom," Sherlock asks Gregson, who hums in the affirmative. Mantlo's hand goes to his audino's head, rubbing behind its ears. The pokemon coos quietly. They leave Mantlo behind and head towards the bedroom.

"Why is it so important that the kidnapper took a ring box," Watson asks.

"Kidnappers don't take trophies. Killers do," Sherlock responds. Gregson stops just before the bedroom door, so Sherlock stops, too. 

"There's no body, genius," Abreu sneers.

"There's no blood on the front stoop or walk, either. It's rather difficult not to leave any when you're abducting someone who's bleeding, wouldn't you say?" She looks at Gregson. "You're certain your men have gone over every inch of this house? There isn't, perhaps, a crawlspace they could have missed?"

"No, nothing like that," Gregson shakes his head. Sherlock hums, and Gregson steps into the bedroom at last. "But as you can see, there was a struggle here." Sherlock looks at the mussed sheets and walks to see the pillows better. Perhaps the killer had left some hair. She feels a slight decline against her toes. She frowns, turning in place and balancing her arms lightly at her side, walking heel to toe to make sure. Four degrees. Abreu scoffs.

"She's in the safe room," Sherlock says.

"What safe room," Gregson questions, looking at Abreu.

"The one behind that wall," Sherlock points to the one behind her, just next to the bed. 

"Husband didn't say anything about any safe room," Abreu says.

"There's a slight angle to the floor in here. You can," she cuts herself off, looking around for something light and round. She spies marbles in a bowl and takes one, lightly setting it on the floor, where it starts to roll. "The extra weight of steel reinforcements in a safe room causes the floor around it to slope one to five degrees," she says, stepping to the bedside table and feeling along the back. She presses a button and the wall slides out of the way, allowing the marble entrance. Gregson and Sherlock frame the door and Sherlock flicks on the light. Watson gasps. Sherlock doesn't blame her; wide-eyed corpses are often startling, especially to amateurs. "Sometimes I hate it when I'm right," she admits.

"Get Dr. Mantlo. Maybe he can explain why his wife was in the safe room he conveniently forgot to tell us about," Gregson orders Abreu. Sherlock backs out of the safe room so that Gregson can get in. The CSI techs do their job, and she snaps a few pictures of her own. She invites Watson out and they wait outside the home. Sherlock lets Verland out, who immediately stretches. Watson releases her swablu.

"They'll bring the doctor to the station. If we leave now, we can beat them there." Watson just follows her, silent. Sherlock's surprised that she isn't inundating her with questions.

 

When they arrive at the 11th station, she immediately goes to the observation of Interview One. Sherlock taps on her phone, checking in with her local contacts. None of them have anything interesting to share with her, unfortunately. She hums and puts her phone away. A police officer opens the door and brings Mantlo in. He sits down and his audino puts its arms up. Mantlo picks it up, sitting it on his lap. The audino feels along his face with its feelers, whimpering softly. Verland chuffs at Sherlock's ear, and her hair waves in his breath. He reaches down and she folds her arms so he can lay in them. She pets him softly. 

"Why aren't the Captain or Detective interrogating him," Watson asks her.

"I believe that the way most police procedurals put it is that they are 'letting him sweat.' Making him nervous," Sherlock nods. "Just a few more minutes, I'm sure."

Gregson and Abreu walk in and sit across from Mantlo. Abreu has a primeape and Gregson his cubone. Or, it's actually a marowak now. 

"Why am I here, no one's told me anything," Mantlo demands.

"You're here because we found Amy," Gregson replies.

"You did? Is she alright?"

"She's dead," Abreu says. Mantlo bows his head and the audino whines. "We found her in the safe room."

"Safe room," Mantlo questions, picking his head up. He looks at the audino, who looks just as confused. 

"The one she ran to while you were chasin' her," Gregson says. 

"For the last time, I  _loved_ my wife. I didn't hurt her, and before this moment I had no idea there was any safe room in my house." Sherlock scoffs. Ridiculous. Does he really believe that anyone will fall for that? But Sherlock agrees with him on one thing- he didn't hurt his wife. She takes out her phone and takes a picture of his hands, laid flat against the table to bracket his pokemon. 

"You get why that's hard for us to believe, right," Gregson asks. 

"Look, the place was gutted before Amy and I moved in two years ago. She's the one who oversaw all the construction."

"I'm sorry," Abreu laughs. "Are you actually saying that she had it installed, but never told you?"

"How do you do it," Watson asks softly.  _There it is._ "Guess things?"

Sherlock looks sharply at her, and even Verland turns his head to glare. "I don't guess. I observe. And once I've observed, I deduce."

"You said you could tell from my hands that I used to be a surgeon."

"Actually, hand. Singular. It was soft, no calluses. Also, it smelled faintly of beeswax."

"The cream," Watson nods. "Old habits die hard," she mutters.

"As far as why you gave up your medical career to become a companion, I'd wager that addiction claimed the life of someone close to you, and their death moved you to make drastic changes in your life. Am I close?" Sherlock watches as Watson and her swablu both relax. Sherlock knows she's wrong. But why is she lying? To spare Watson's feelings? It's a fact. One mistake does not a bad person make.

"What about my father?"

"What about him?"

"How did you know he had an affair?"

"Google." The swablu trills. "Well, not everything is deducible." She looks forward in time to see Gregson, Abreu, and their respective pokemon leave. The women move to meet them.

"I uh, just wanted to say 'thanks' for helping out today," Abreu nods. He might as well be spitting vinegar. The man is arrogant and also doesn't think too highly of women. Sherlock chances a look at his primeape, who just has its arms crossed and is glaring at her. "You got us our guy, and we're grateful. We can take it from here," he extends his hand.

"Respectfully, Detective, I doubt that very much. I have reason to believe that Richard Mantlo didn't kill his wife."

"Wait, wait, wait, wait. Come again," Abreu demands. Gregson looks confused, too.

"He lied about the safe room," the Captain says.

"And I don't know why he is. But that doesn't mean he killed his wife."

"How do you figure," Gregson asks.

"Dr. Mantlo has very small feet," Sherlock says. "He's an American size 8 if he's an inch. The print on the door was an 11."

"So? Like you said, he was smart. Wore bigger shoes to throw us off," Abreu challenges.

"Oh, did he also wear bigger hands when he strangled his wife," she bites back.

"Holmes," Gregson warns. Sherlock huffs and brings up the photo she had taken of Amy Dampier's neck and puts the photo of Mantlo's hands next to it.

"These strangulation marks are indicative of a man much larger than Mantlo. Not just heavier but taller. I'd estimate his height to be somewhere between 6'1 and 6'3. Your M.E. will come to the same conclusion in a couple of hours. I'm delivering it now so we can spend those hours hunting for the real killer." At the men's dubious looks, she turns to Watson. "You're a doctor. Tell them I'm right."

"I'm not a doctor," Watson shakes her head.

"Were a doctor. Surely you haven't forgotten how simple bruising works," she offers her phone. Watson looks, and Sherlock sees her eyes light up. The woman knows she's right.

"Ok, yeah, sure, these hands do seem a little small for the bruise pattern but I-"

Sherlock cuts her off before she can backpedal. "With your permission, Captain, I'd like a moment alone with Dr. Mantlo."

"Captain, this," Abreu starts.

"You got two minutes." Sherlock nods and walks away to fetch a pad of paper and a pen. She walks into the interview room and puts the items on the table.

"Tall men in your life. I'd like a list. And if you have reason to suspect them, I'd like to know that as well."

"Who are you," Dr. Mantlo asks.

"Sherlock Holmes. I'm a consultant for the NYPD. Now. Tall men?" Mantlo takes up the pen and starts to write, talking as he goes. Sherlock absorbs the information, categorizing it in order of importance. When the list is complete, she takes the pad and pen back, ripping off the sheet of paper and returning the items to the correct officer's desk. She uses his computer to run all the names for criminal records. One has one, or at least the semblance of one. She moves that name to the top of the list.

"Come along, Watson," she says and Watson follows her. They head to Sanbridge to talk with one of Mantlo's coworkers.

 

"We'd like to speak with Harrison Polk, please," Sherlock tells the receptionist, whose pokemon is a meowth. 

"Reason for visit?"

"Police business."

"One moment." She calls the man, then waves them in. Polk meets them in the hallway.

"What do the police want with me," he asks. He has a wigglytuff with him.

"Do you know an Amy Dampier, Mr. Polk," Sherlock asks.

"Amy yeah, of course I know Amy."

"I'm afraid that she's been murdered."

"My God," Polk says, hand going to the wigglytuff. Polk starts to walk with them. "Amy was a good person, but if you're here because you think I had something to do with it," he shakes his head.

"Dr. Mantlo said that you made a pass at her at a holiday party last year," Sherlock says.

"Actually, no, I didn't. I asked her about all the plastic surgery she'd had."

"Plastic surgery," Sherlock questions, looking at Watson. The woman's face screams 'don't brag.'

"Ok, look. I helped plan a fundraiser for the hospital two years ago, that was before the surgeries. I know I still have the pictures." The women follow Polk to his office while he clicks on the computer, looking. Sherlock notices Watson trying to catch her eye and she looks where Watson is pointing with her eyes. Size 11 shoebox on a chair in front of Polk's desk. Sherlock nods, impressed once more. Verland rubs against her leg. "There," Polk says, turning the computer around. Both women lean in- Amy Dampier certainly hadn't needed any plastic surgery. "That's a picture of Amy and Dr. Mantlo I took that night. Tell me  _you_ wouldn't want to ask her why she did it."

Sherlock straightens and looks at him. "Tell me about the stalking charge brought against you two years ago."

"I asked my neighbor out," he replies, folding his arms.  _Defensive and self-comforting_. His wigglytuff holds onto his leg, comforting him. "She overreacted."

Sherlock hums; that's not the entire story.

"Mr. Polk, can you tell us where you were last night," Watson asks. Sherlock glances at her. Watson is enjoying this. Sherlock had always believed that detecting was a calling, not a job. Maybe there's hope for her yet.

"Home. Alone. I know- not much of an alibi but I don't care because I didn't do it."

"I must ask you not to leave town," Sherlock says.

"Yeah, fine," Polk waves his hand. The women and their pokemon leave. Sherlock calls Gregson and steps away from Watson to do so.

"Gregson," the man answers.

"Captain."

"Holmes. Any luck?"

"None so far."

"Put it on hold until tomorrow."

"But Captain-"

"Look at the time. It's 5:00. You're not allowed to badger anyone in their own God-damn home, you hear me?" His voice is sharp and commanding.

"Yes, Captain."

"Night, Holmes," he wishes, voice gentler.

"Good night, Captain." She hangs up and returns to Watson, and they make their way home. 

 

Sherlock leaves Watson to her nightly ritual and releases her pokemon, going to the roof. None of them follow her. She sits in her chair and watches her bees. Sherlock appreciates the quiet, only disrupted by the gentle buzzing and the sound of traffic below. She takes the opportunity to write.

"Did you know that honey was dripping through the ceiling," Watson asks. Sherlock hears her approach but doesn't turn. 

"Yes. Happens sometimes."

"I take it beekeeping is a hobby."

"I'm writing a book.  _Practical Handbook of Bee Culture with Some Observations Upon the Segregation of the Queen_." Sherlock can see Watson looking around for a computer or notebook. "Up here," she touches her temple. "i've just started Chapter 19. Would you like to hear the last few paragraphs?"

"Did you talk to the police about that scary administrator guy? You walked away when you called the Captain."

"I have not."

"But I thought that," Watson trails off. 

"Mr. Polk is a prat, no doubt. But his body language said 'sub,' not 'dom.' I don't see him having the berries to take another life." Sherlock looks at Watson. "Why do you suppose you hate your job so much?"

"I don't hate my job."

"You have two alarm clocks, one of them across the room." Sherlock had taken a look as she passed. "No one with two alarm clocks loves their job. Two alarm clocks means that it's a chore to get up in the morning." She pauses, watching the effect of her words. "You don't hate what I do, though," she gentles her tone. Watson's attention snaps to her. "That much was obvious when we talked to Mr. Polk. There was a look on your face. I imagine it was the same look you wore to the O.R."

"You're wrong," Watson shakes her head.

Sherlock decides not to press the issue. "I know my father secured your services for the next six weeks," she asks. Watson nods. "The simple truth is, I don't need you. I'm finished with drugs. I shan't be using them again. My advice? Take a six-week holiday. I promise I won't tell Papa." Watson leaves. Sherlock lets her. She goes down twenty minutes later. The light is still on in Watson's room, but she leaves her be.

 

Sherlock gets up early the next morning, sneaks into Watson's room, and disconnects both of her alarms.  _Let's see how early she wakes up of her own accord._ Sherlock goes into work, heading straight for a computer. She looks up anything she can think of that may spark a connection between her case and a previous one; 'size 11,' 'manual strangulation,' and 'theft' gets her results. She combs through them, discarding some results immediately- male victims, for example. She looks up the rest of the files and goes to the file room, retrieving them and taking them to her preferred spot nestled in a corner. Verland jumps up into her lap and stretches out, going to sleep.

 

"I'm going to need your saliva now," Watson says. Sherlock looks over her shoulder and then checks her watch. 

"10:37. I take back everything I said last night. You obviously love your job; couldn't wait to get started this morning." Sherlock stands, making Verland jump up onto the desk. She lets Watson in.

"Open your mouth so I can swab it. If you're on anything, the strip on the cup will turn blue."

"I have a-" Watson sticks a swab in her mouth and collects a sample vigorously. Sherlock licks the dryness out of her mouth and then continues. "I have a new theory about our killer. I think he may have struck at least once before. I- who love what I do- woke up early and couldn't stop thinking about the ring box he stole from Amy Dampier's living room."

"You said it was some sort of trophy," Watson says, shaking the cup and watching it, keeping an eye on her watch. 

"And we all know what sort of killers take trophies, don't we?"

"Serial," Watson says, looking up. Her swablu shivers from her perch on Watson's head and coos.

Sherlock nods. "Souvenirs help them differentiate between victims. It occurred to me that if Amy wasn't our killer's first, there might be other cases in common." She turns and picks up the file that Verland is holding in his mouth. "Eileen Renfro. Savagely beaten and strangled by an intruder in her Bronx home two years ago. He took a jewelry box on his way out, leaving behind a size 11 footprint."

"Drug free. Congratulations," Watson says, dry.

"Especially striking were the physical similarities between her and Amy," Sherlock points to the pictures. "Both were curvaceous with long red hair."

"You think the killer has a type," Watson says, and Sherlock can see she's getting excited. Nothing like the thrill of the chase.

"Most serial killers do. The one significant difference in the cases," Sherlock says, and Watson looks up, wary. "Eileen Renfro survived her attack."

"I guess we're headed to the Bronx."

"Indeed." Sherlock goes to leave, but Verland calls from behind her. She turns, and he yawns pointedly at her. "Alright, alright. Lazy bum. In you go." She returns him to his ball and takes out another one, releasing her furret, Fehran.

"You have more than one pokemon on you," Watson asks.

"Yes."

"How many?"

"Six."

"A full team," Watson exclaims.

"Well, yes. Come along, Fehran." The furret follows her and Watson brings up the rear. Fehran curls up in Sherlock's lap in the passenger seat.

"You know, Fehran can sit in the back if he'd like to stretch out," Watson offers.

Sherlock looks down at Fehran, who chuffs. "He doesn't want to. But thank you for the offer."

Watson nods and keeps driving.

 

They pull up outside Eileen Renfro's last known address and they pile out. Fehran darts ahead and waits by the door. When Sherlock gets there, he stands up and rings the doorbell. Renfro comes to the door.

"Hello," she says.

"Ms. Renfro?"

"Yes?"

"My name is Sherlock Holmes, this is Joan Watson. I'm a consulting detective with the NYPD. I believe I have new information about your case."

"Please come in," she offers. She stands aside so humans and pokemon can enter. She sits on the couch and an eevee jumps into her lap. Renfro immediately starts to pet her.

Sherlock and Watson sit in separate chairs facing her. Fehran curls around Sherlock's feet and Watson's swablu floats next to her trainer's head. "Do you know this woman," Sherlock asks, extending a photo of Amy. "She might have been attacked and killed by the same man who assaulted you."

Renfro studies it for a moment. "I'm sorry. I can see why you think it might be the same guy. I just don't think I can help you. I don't know her." She hands the photo back.

"We know from your police report that the man who assaulted you wore a mask. That doesn't mean you can't help us identify him." Renfro starts to pet her eevee, her other hand coming up to play with her cross.  _Pacifying behavior. Is she lying?_ "Did he say anything to you?"

"No. I came in through my front door and he was just there." That's a lie.

"Did he have a particular scent?"

Her hands still. "I don't think so." Truth.

"Was he tall, short, somewhere in between?" Her hands start to move again.

"I don't know. I mean, he was on top of me so quickly and his hands were around my throat."

"And what about the mask?"

"What about it?"

"Was it ski, Mexican wrestling, paper plate," Sherlock lists. Watson's swablu squeaks and Renfro's eevee glares at Sherlock for her tone, but she ignores it. She needs to catch Renfro in a lie.

"Ski," Renfro bites out.

"Excellent! So you got a good look at his eyes." Renfro's own widen, and she pets her eevee harder. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but a strangler can  _literally_ not be more than an arm's length from his stranglee." She extends her hands towards Renfro's throat and ignores her flinch.

"Ms. Holmes," Watson warns.

"I'm about as tall as an average man and I cannot reach you. Even from this distance I can tell your eyes are a lovely brown, as you can no doubt see mine are blue."

"I think I'd like you to leave now," Renfro says, voice tight.

"Why? Because I know you're lying?"

"Ms. Holmes," Watson barks.

"No, she is," Sherlock stands and whirls on her. Fehran stands and glares at Renfro's eevee. "You fiddle with your crucifix and pet your eevee harder every time I ask you a question. It's pacifying behavior. Elementary haptic communication. Just, read a  _book_ , won't you," she directs to Watson. "She did see-"

"Sherlock!"

"-her attacker's face. I think she might even know who he is!"

"Get out," Renfro demands quietly. Her eevee stands up and growls. 

"You realize that because you protected him two years ago, you have the blood of an innocent woman on your hands, don't you? Perhaps you'd like to go for two? Or three, or four?"

"That's enough," Watson shouts, standing. Sherlock looks at her. "You're done here. Go wait in the car." Sherlock sweeps out, Fehran hurrying after her.

She paces by the car. Fehran trills up at her. "I'm fine, Fehran." He trills again, and she looks at him. He stands up and walks towards her. She opens her arms, and he lays his chin on her shoulder. She pets his soft fur, calming herself. Like she said- pacifying behavior.

"The name of the man who attacked her is Peter Saldua," Watson says, and Sherlock and Fehran look at her. "He was her brother's best friend growing up. His father was abusive, so her parents took him in his senior year of high school. Eileen heard from her brother that he works for a florist in Chelsea."

Sherlock chuckles softly as Fehran lowers himself. "I knew it," she nods. "I knew if I started a row in there, you'd come to her defense, and if you came to her defense she might very well tell you the truth."

"You're so full of shit," Watson remarks. Sherlock ignores her and calls the Captain.

"Gregson," the man greets. 

"Captain. I'm calling because I believe I've uncovered the name of a strong suspect in the murder of Amy Dampier."

"Name wouldn't be Peter Saldua by any chance, would it?" Sherlock frowns. Was there something she missed, some small clue that Gregson or Abreu had found that led them to Saldua?

"How did you know?"

"'Cause I'm at his house, looking at him right now."

"Are you saying he's in police custody?"

"Technically, yeah. He's all ours."

"What do you mean, 'technically?'"

"He's dead. Looks like suicide."

"Bollocks."

"Yeah. Come over, I'll explain. I'll text you the address."

They hang up and her phone pings with a new message. 

"What is it," Watson asks her.

"Saldua has apparently committed suicide. The Captain has summoned us to the scene." Fehran and Watson's swablu whine. They get in the car and drive to Chelsea.

 

The woman return their pokemon to their balls and put on gloves before they enter the crime scene. 

"Mailman saw the body through the window," Gregson says. "Called 911, said he thought someone on his route had killed himself. Turns out he was right," he shrugs. "The gun was still in Saldua's hand when we got here."  _Odd, that. The weapon doesn't often stay in the person's hand._ Gregson must catch her look. "Yeah, I know. I thought it was weird, too. Told the M.E. to take a close look at this one. Watch the blood spatter," he directs to Watson. "We found the ring box from Amy Dampier's home right here," he points to the table next to Saldua's body.

"Turns out Mantlo and his wife used the florist Saldua worked for," Abreu jumps in. "They order fresh flowers to the house once a week, Saldua was the guy who delivered them." He shrugs. "Explains why she would have let him in the other night."

Sherlock looks past him to the laundry room. The washer is overturned and has dents and bootprints all over it. "What happened there," she questions.

"Mixed his colors with his whites," Abreu sneers. "Who knows, guy was a nut bar." Sherlock barely spares him a glance as she squeezes past him. She examines the washer.  _Size 11. Same pattern as the one on Amy Dampier's door. Why would he destroy the washer?_   Sherlock stands and looks at the table, seeing an empty charger.

"Did you already take his phone," she asks Gregson.

"Hasn't turned up yet. But it will." Sherlock believes him- the man is far above average for a policeman. Top-tier, really. And he doesn't say things lightly; his word is his bond. He's not one for grand acts of emotion. That's why they work together so well. She's glad that Gregson had taken her up on her offer when she had called him.

Watson comes up to her when the men move away, quietly talking. "You wanted to be the one who found him, didn't you," she asks. Sherlock scowls.

"I don't do what I do for the credit."

"Then why do you do it?"

 _Because it would hurt not to._ But Sherlock doesn't say that. Instead she hunts through the small domicile, looking for any other clues. But everything pertinent seems to be confined to the kitchen and adjacent laundry room. "Don't you think that's strange," she asks aloud, coming back.

"What's strange," Watson asks.

"Everything we needed was right here," she gestures at the small area.

"Guy decided to kill himself," Abreu shrugs. "Probably wanted to make it easier for us."

"Then why not just simply turn himself in?"

"Have you been ignoring me the past couple of days? The. Guy. Was. A. Nut. Job."

"Something's missing," she mutters. 

Abreu scoffs. "You really don't give up, do you?"

"No. It's a point of pride." Abreu rolls his eyes and walks away.

"Sherlock," Watson says, voice gentle. "Let's go home." She pulls at Sherlock's elbow, and the women leave. 

 

Sherlock paces when she gets home, looking over every piece of evidence she has again, and three times, and four. Verland is sitting on a chair, watching her. She turns on the news for background noise and looks up when she hears Mantlo's voice.

"I would like to thank the police, again, for finding the man who killed my wife. I would've liked to have seen him stand trial for what he did-" Sherlock hears Watson come in.

"She had her mole removed when she changed her look," Sherlock says. "It doesn't make any sense. She loved that mole. Turned her head to feature it whenever her picture was taken." Watson stands beside her.

"Where did you get those pictures," she asks.

"I reached out to Amy Dampier's friends and family via her facebook page, they provided them. But the point is, Harrison Polk was right." She gestures at the wall with the phone records in her hand. "She was as beautiful before her surgery as she was after, so why did it matter? What was the point?"

"Sherlock-"

"And another thing! Saldua's phone records indicate that he used his cell phone constantly," she says, running the back of her hand up and down the numbers. "Then three days ago, he just stopped. Didn't make a single call. Didn't send a single text. Why? His banking statements, meanwhile," she picks them up. "There are several checks made out to a Dr. Roland Jessup, psychologist. He seems worth a talking to, no? No, 'cause he dropped dead of a coronary, 2010." She throws the papers down in disgust and folds her hands over her head. Ginger rubs up against her. "Not now," she gently nudges the arcanine away. Ginger goes to Verland and the vulpix chitters at her.

"The Amy Dampier case is over. You helped solve it," Watson says.

"No. Something's off, I can feel it." Sherlock looks over when she hears the printer spit out three papers. "What's that?"

"I got us tickets to the opera tonight," Watson says brightly.  _Two tickets and a receipt._ "To celebrate. Your father mentioned something about you liking it so I thought-"

Sherlock laughs wryly. "I saw  _La Grand Macabre_ once, when I was nine, now I'm a buff!" She can't even afford to be angry at him right now, she has a case to solve. 

"I'm worried about you," Watson admits, stepping closer to her.  _Don't be._ "I think you're making things more complicated than they really are and it tells me you're struggling."

"No struggle with anything. Or haven't you been paying attention the last few days? I've been right about everything."

Watson looks at her swablu, who coos. "Actually, you haven't. The day we met you deduced that I gave up being a surgeon to become a companion because I lost someone close to me to addiction. The truth is-"

"The truth is that you made a mistake during surgery that cost a patient his life." Sherlock looks at her, and Watson is stunned. "It takes years of study to become a surgeon, not to mention tremendous ego. You literally hold someone's life in your hands." She sighs. "Surgeons don't just leave to become addict-sitters, they're forced out. And they're only forced out if they commit the sin of malpractice. I knew it would be a delicate subject so I made up the bit about your friend to," she gestures vaguely. "Spare your feelings."

"That was very big of you." There's silence. The only thing the humans hear is the sound of claws upstairs as Sherlock's sandslash, Sandreald, walks around. If Sherlock really listens, she can hear her rapidash, Pehrent, walk on the roof near her bees. Fehran is probably curled up in some corner, sleeping. Her espeon Eloin walks into the room and sits in the doorway. "How do you know the patient died?" Sherlock stills. "How do you know I didn't just leave him paralyzed or in a coma?"

"The parking ticket!" Sherlock can't hide her exasperation. If this is what it takes to get Watson to see that she's right, so be it. "The one you had in your purse. It was," she cuts herself off with a sigh and puts her hands on her hips. "You incurred it two weeks ago near the corner of 86th and 3rd. The only thing there is Carver Cemetery. You were visiting a grave. Not a parent's grave, Google indicates that they're alive and well. The picture you keep in your phone says that they're well-to-do, no sibling of yours would be interred in a pauper's field. Carver doesn't even have a proper parking area, hence the ticket. So, a surgeon who's no longer a surgeon, a parking ticket incurred outside a poor man's cemetery, and two parents as moneyed as the are alive. Add it all up, what does it say," she gestures at Watson. "You were visiting the grave of the man you let die on your operating table." She drops her hand. Watson doesn't show her distress nearly as much as Sherlock thought she would.

"It's so incredible, the way you can solve people just by looking at them."  _People are puzzles. As are the cases I solve. I'm missing a piece._ "I notice you don't have any mirrors around here." Verland and Ginger both stand, growling and hair bristling. 

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I think you know a lost cause when you see one. Tomorrow, I'll arrange for a new companion, but tonight I've got plans." Watson leaves. Eloin comes and pushes at Sherlock's knees until she obeys and sits in the chair that Verland vacates for her. She jumps into her lap and rubs against her, purring. Sherlock pets her, staring at the evidence wall. 

Sherlock picks up the phone Eloin nudges over to her and dials the Captain. 

"Gregson."

"Captain."

"Sherlock," surprise colors his voice. "What is it?"

"Could you acquire the files of one Dr. Roland Jessup, deceased former psychiatrist of Peter Saldua?"

"I'll see what I can do. I'll call you."

"Thank you." Sherlock hangs up. Eloin puts her paws on her shoulders and presses foreheads with her, soothing her. "I'm alright, Eloin," Sherlock says, petting her back. Eloin scoffs. "I am."

The Captain calls her back half an hour later. "Holmes," he greets. "Got the files. Meet me at Paddy's. Do you know where that is?"

"Yes. I'll be there momentarily." She hangs up. "Verland, come along." Verland curls up tighter, but Eloin looks at her. "Do you want to come?" Eloin curls her tails happily, and Sherlock nods. "Go get your ball, then." Sherlock gets ready until Eloin drops her ball in her hand, then she pockets it. They go out together, headed for the cop bar that Gregson frequents.

When Sherlock walks in, she scans the bar. She sees Gregson's back and approaches him. "Captain." Eloin chirps her own greeting from the floor.

"You have an espeon," Gregson asks, raising an eyebrow.

"I didn't have Eloin when we last saw each other." Gregson accepts the information with a nod.

"Here. Everything your dead shrink had on my dead suspect." He slides the file over to her. Eloin sneezes. Sherlock opens the file and rubs her fingers together. 

"It's dusty." Eloin climbs up the back of Gregson's chair and walks along the back to jump up to Sherlock's shoulders. She walks to her left one, sits, and starts watching TV. 

"The guy's been dead almost two years," Gregson says, eyes following Eloin with interest. Sherlock doesn't blame him; most people don't think she's the psychic type. His own leafeon sits up in his lap. "His widow had all his stuff in storage. You're  _lucky_ she even let me take a look." Sherlock hums, reading.

"According to this, Saldua never told him about the attack on Eileen Renfro," she remarks. "Just that he had an obsession with redheaded women and a tendency towards violence." Gregson puts his arm around her and pulls her closer, and she goes easily. When Gregson drops his hand, she looks around and a man drops his gaze when she looks at him.

"Want something," Gregson asks her. "I could get you a beer or something."

"No thank you. 'Mr. Saldua, now obsessed with his own recovery, has taken to recording our sessions on his phone so that he can listen to them again and again.' He really was trying to help himself."

"Yeah, well, not trying hard enough, I guess."

Sherlock looks at him. "Has his phone turned up yet?"

"No. I'm starting to think he lost it." He puts down his drink and stands, lifting his leafeon as he does. "Look, I'm going to the bathroom. You three, keep an eye on this coat, will ya?" His leafeon chirps in affirmation and Sherlock waves her hand noncommittally. Eloin nudges at her ear, distracting her from reading, and she looks up.

"God, it feels good," the wrestler on TV exclaims. "Whether it's you, or me, or both of us, your ass is mine. You're both dead!"

"Rage," Sherlock realizes. "He felt rage." She turns to leave, but Eloin digs her claws in. "Eloin, I-" Eloin looks pointedly at Gregson's coat. "Fine," Sherlock says, staying put. The espeon purrs, walking to her other shoulder and jumping into Gregson's chair. His leafeon moves over for her. Sherlock has never seen the pokemon before- she must be Gregson's companion pokemon out of work. She's seen Chilton, his cubone-turned-marowak. He even made the trip across the pond when the two first met. 

"You're actually still here," Gregson says.

"Mm," Sherlock shrugs. "Tried to leave, but Eloin must have thought your coat was in danger."

"Thank you, Eloin." Gregson looks at the two eeveelutions. "Eroe and Eloin seem cozy, huh?" Sherlock doesn't answer. "You said you were about to leave?" Sherlock nods. "See ya." Sherlock lowers one shoulder, but Eloin just jumps onto the floor.

Sherlock moves to go home, but Eloin clamps her teeth on her coat. "Eloin, I need Watson." Eloin stands and paws at Sherlock's pocket. She puts her hand in, feeling paper. "You put the ticket in," she asks. Eloin looks pleased with herself. "Good girl. Come." The duo head to the opera.

Sherlock looks for Watson, calling her name. She wishes she could use Eloin, but she's in her ball. She sees her at last, gesturing for the woman to come to her. Watson shakes her head. Sherlock joins her, dropping into her rightful seat. "Peter Saldua felt rage the night he killed Amy Dampier," she starts. "Now, he had some measure of control-"

"You're not here right now. I don't see you, I don't hear you-"

"Shall I speak up," Sherlock asks loudly. Watson shoots her a look, and she resumes whispering. "He had some measure of control with Eileen Renfro, but not with her. Why? Tell me, what exactly does a Xanax table look like?"

"Small, white or yellow, ovular. Why?"

Sherlock dials the station. "11th precinct, how can I direct your call?"

"Detective Abreu, please." The woman in front of them turns and shushes them. "Shh yourself. Not even on key."

"Abreu," the man greets.

"Sherlock Holmes." Abreu groans.

"Make it quick, Princess Diana, I was just on my way out."

"Princess Diana was Welsh."

"Goodbye."

"No, no! Wait." She doesn't hear the 'click' of being hung up on. "The pill vial from Saldua's home, I know it was taken into Evidence. I need you to find it for me."

"Hold on." She hears rustling on the other end of the line. "Ok, now what?"

"The pills inside should be either white or yellow and ovular, but they're not, are they? They're round and pink." The distinctive 'pop' of the top and then the cascade of pills. 

"How'd you know?" Sherlock hangs up. Not like he can like her any less. 

"I need a ride, right now," she directs to Watson.

"I'm in the middle of something."

Sherlock sighs, chewing over her words. "You were right, the other day. About Eileen Renfro. I had no idea that she would respond to you in the way that she did. I just told you I did because I was embarrassed I lost my temper. Would I have gotten to the truth some other way? Yes, of course, but you got me there faster. Now, please, how fast can you get me to Sanbridge Hospital?" Watson smiles, just barely. 

"Let's go," she says. They leave and they let their pokemon out.

"I never asked. What's your pokemon's name," Sherlock asks.

"Saba. And what's this one's name?"

"Eloin."

 

They arrive at Sanbridge, and Sherlock gets out of the car, followed by Watson. "Stay here," Sherlock says, and Watson does so. Sherlock approaches Dr. Mantlo, who is just getting out. She meets him at the top of the steps. "You were Peter Saldua's last therapist, weren't you? You started treating him, what, probably just a few weeks before you talked your wife into all that plastic surgery."

"Excuse me?"

"Saldua wanted to fix himself. Dr. Jessup was his first attempt. You were his second. It's quite a bit of luck, that," she nods. "You, a man with a wife he wanted dead, stumbling across him, a man with an obsessive personality and a history of violence. The only problem was that Amy didn't fit his victim profile. But you accounted for that by pressuring her to alter her appearance until she did."

"Ms. Holmes, right," Mantlo asks. "We met the other day."

Sherlock nods. "The pill vial from Saldua's home came from you. Sample from the hospital, no doubt," she looks at the building. "Almost impossible to trace. He thought he was taking tranquilizers but he wasn't, was he? He was taking a steroid. You were whipping him into a killing frenzy. A frenzy that only made him more and more confused, more violent, more likely to give in to his terrible compulsions."

Mantlo just meets her gaze steadily. "I never even heard the name Peter Saldua until the police told me he was the man who killed Amy." 

"Bollocks," Sherlock snaps. She looks at his audino. No longer is it cowering and cooing, but now it's standing tall and nearly smug, just like its trainer. "I imagine that you took to meeting him at odd times in odd places so you'd never be seen together. And when the time was right, you took advantage of his job as a delivery man to place him in Amy's path. You arranged for flowers to be sent to the house once a week because you needed him to see her. You needed him to become obsessed with her. You loaded him like a weapon and you pointed him squarely at your own wife."

"You're insane."

"No,  _he_ was insane, doctor! And you took advantage. And after you'd murdered him and made it look like a suicide, you took his phone. Because he'd taken to recording your sessions. That wasn't a problem, killing him was always part of the plan." For a moment, all is quiet.

"Hypothetically, Ms. Holmes. A man wants out of his marriage to a very wealthy wife. He knows that during the course of their relationship, he signed a prenuptial agreement that gives him nothing if he leaves her, and a living trust that gives him everything if she dies. Hypothetically, wouldn't that man be smarter to look for a way to trigger the clauses in the second document as opposed to the first?" Mantlo smiles softly. "Goodnight, Ms. Holmes. I won't be seeing you." He walks away. Sherlock returns to Watson.

"What did he say," Watson asks.

"He said that he did it."

"We have to tell the police!" 

"No point." Sherlock rubs her face. "I need your car keys."

"What, why?"

"Car keys!" Watson hands them over, and Sherlock marches to the car. Eloin doesn't follow her. She crashes into the side of Mantlo's car. "Better," she sighs. She gets out of the car and sits beside Watson, waiting for the police.

 

While she's 'cooling her heels' in jail, Sherlock regrets. She had acted rashly, something she'd almost never done in the past. Perhaps she does need a companion; someone just to get her on her feet.

"Holmes," a guard calls, and she stands. "Visitor for you." She follows her to a white room with glass panels, and on the other side of one is Watson. They both pick up their respective phones.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock starts. "Not just for your car- which I'll pay for, of course, it wasn't much of a loss- but for the way I spoke to you earlier. I knew that the death of your patient would be a sore subject, I just-"

"Couldn't help yourself," Watson finishes. Sherlock shrugs. "Yeah, I'm starting to see how that could be a thing with you."

"I assume you told my father about what happened tonight." Watson's silence speaks volumes. "I'm going to miss that brownstone."

"Actually, you're not." Sherlock's eyes snap to hers. "I spoke with him, and since what you did at the hospital had nothing to do with drugs, he's agreed to give you another chance." Sherlock smiles.

"You've decided to stay on as my companion, haven't you? You never would have agreed if you hadn't. I'm very pleased, Watson." Watson just gives her a look. "Oh, for myself, of course, but also for you." Surprise flickers across Watson's face. "I happen to think there's some hope for you as an investigator." Surprise again, then pride, and then doubt.

"I want you to let me in on the rest of the plan." Sherlock just looks blankly at her.  _What plan?_ "To get Mantlo. I know you wouldn't have wrecked my car unless it was part of some elaborate," she trails off, reading the look on Sherlock's face. "Temper tantrum."

"Correct."

"In that case, I want to to tell me about London."

"Big place. Lots of rain," Sherlock describes, knowing what she's really asking.

"I want you to tell me what happened to you in London."

"Why is it so important to you?"

"Because if I'm going to stay with you, I need to know everything."

"Actually, you don't need to know anything other than the fact that I am a recovering addict. You just want to know about London because you think it'll connect us in a more meaningful way. But in case you hadn't noticed; I don't have meaningful connections." Watson looks down and smiles. "Why are you smiling," Sherlock demands.

"Because now I know it was a woman."

Sherlock stills, feeling her heart beat once, hard, before it drops. "It could be a man. I am bisexual. But what makes you think it was anyone?"

"It was a woman. You're trying too hard. Just like you were the day we met, with that tattooed lady. All that 'sex is repellent' crap. You  _can_ connect to people. It just frightens you."

 _You're wrong there, Watson. I can't connect. Not anymore._ "My bail hearing is at 9:00 tomorrow. I trust I'll see you there." Sherlock hangs up and walks away.

 

Sherlock is fetched in the morning after an entertaining night of guessing why each person was in the jail and goes before the judge with a court-appointed barrister at her side. She listens, trying to keep the boredom off her face, and accepts the fine. She pays it and collects her belongings, including Eloin. She lets the pokemon out immediately, letting her stretch her legs. They go down the courthouse steps.

"You're late, Ms. Watson," Sherlock says, seeing her at the bottom. "That barrister was rubbish."

"I need to show you something," Watson says, coming to her side. Saba is practically vibrating in excitement. "This is Peter Saldua's medical file. Look under the 'known allergies' heading." Sherlock looks- the man had written 'rice' in bold capital letters. He wanted it to be seen, and seen quickly. It must have been quite a strong allergy. "Now, this was taken the morning his body was found," she hands over a photo of his pantry. Sherlock sees that there's a large sack of rice there. "Weird, huh?"

"Actually," Sherlock realizes. "Not even a little." She hands the papers back to Watson and picks up her phone, dialing Gregson's number.

"Gregson."

"Captain."

"Hey, jailbird."

"Very funny. Now, I need you to call Mantlo in."

"I'm not doing anything until you explain yourself." He's angry, and rightfully so. 

"I'll explain when I get in. We've found something," Sherlock says, smiling at Watson. Watson straightens her shoulders and Saba trills.

 

They go to the station and directly to Gregson's office. Chilton glares at them while Gregson slowly sits up in his chair.

"Explain."

"Dr. Mantlo admitted to me that he killed his wife." Gregson's eyes narrow.

"What?"

"He used hypotheticals," Sherlock admits, bitter. Gregson slumps. "And I had no evidence. Until now."

Gregson slowly straightens again. 

"Look here," Watson says, handing him the medical form.

"What exactly am I supposed to be looking at here, Ms. Watson?"

"Under 'allergies,' Captain."

"Ok," Gregson draws out, confused.

"Now look," Sherlock hands him the photo. Gregson looks over the top of his glasses at it.

"I admit; it's weird," Gregson says, putting them both down. "But why is it important? He could have had rice for guests."

"Did Peter Saldua seem like a man who would entertain many guests?"

"No," Gregson capitulates.

"I believe there's a reason he purchased that bag of rice, and I might even be able to tell you when."

"Are you really gonna make me ask?"

"I believe that if we check his bank records, he bought it three days ago." Gregson just lifts his hand in a questioning manner. "The same day he stopped using his phone." Gregson looks blank for a second before realization dawns. Like Sherlock said; top-tier.

"Let's go." Gregson stands, leading the way out. They take his car, Sherlock riding in front and Watson in back. "What made you think of this?"

"Actually, it was Watson who spotted it."

Gregson looks in the rearview mirror at her. "Good catch."

 

They arrive at Peter Saldua's home. Sherlock beelines to the pantry, putting on gloves. She reaches into the rice and feels around until she feels something hard and square. She smiles and takes it out- a cell phone.

Gregson smiles for a second before he pauses. "There's no battery." Sherlock feels around some more and retrieves it.

"How did you know that would be in there," Watson asks.

"The pills in Saldua's pill bottle, the one marked 'Xanax,' they were steroids."

"Steroids," Gregson questions. "Boy, that would have gotten him riled up if he was popping them."

"To put it mildly," Watson agrees.

"And now the washer makes sense," Sherlock gestures. "He left his phone in his pocket when he threw his trousers in the wash. He realized too late and destroyed the washer. When I read Jessup's file with you," she directs to the Captain. She hears Watson shift behind them. "No, we're not sleeping together." The Captain clears his throat softly. "Saldua was recording his sessions on his phone. Which, I believe, if we listen to," she places the battery back in and looks through the recording app, pressing the most recent one.

"Her name is Amy," a voice she assumes is Saldua's says. "And when I see her I get these feelings...you need to tell me how to stop myself from hurting her, Dr. Mantlo, I don't want to hurt her, please!" Sherlock looks at Watson, smiling.

"It's ok, Peter. I'm here for you. Let's try upping your meds, see where that takes us." Gregson smiles.

"Looks like I'll be calling Mantlo in to 'apologize.'" He walks away to make the call.

"Well done, Watson," Sherlock praises. Watson smiles.


End file.
